


Redeemers: Sons of the Lion

by Zoness



Series: Redeemers of Caliban [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adepta Sororitas, Chaos, Dark Angels, Fallen Angels, Gen, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Imperial Guard, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Orkz, Space Marines, Successor Chapter, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoness/pseuds/Zoness
Summary: As the son of a warrior prince on a primitive and barbaric world Mathen always expected to live a life of conflict. He never imagined the Shadows of Death his people worshiped were real beings, let alone that he would see one with his own eyes on the field of battle. When he and his brothers are chosen to join them the boys will battle foes across many different worlds as they struggle both to survive and to rise through the ranks of one of the most secretive and unforgiving Legions. Can they learn who to trust in this secretive successor chapter? Will they be able to hold on to any traces of the boys they once were as they become Sons of the Lion?





	1. Shadows of Death

**Redeemers**

**Sons of the Lion**

 

**Part I**

**Shadows of Death**

 

The sun glared down through the clouded heavens like an angry eye but did nothing to melt the ankle-deep snows as the clans arrayed themselves for war.

Mathen was just one of the thousands of young princes prepared for battle that day. Wearing the heavy fur cloak of a warrior and ill-fitting battered black armor that had been passed down through his clan for generations untold he stood by his brothers and cousins and waited for the storm.

They were young but all were well versed in the ways of battle. The warrior clans trained their sons and even their daughters to fight as soon as they were strong enough to hold a blade, and Mathen had fought many battles against marauders and raiders seeking to steal his own clan’s wealth.

Life was hard in the highlands and the clans were almost constantly at war with one another. Making alliances and breaking alliances; one winter‘s friend could be a summer‘s foe. Some of the boys that would march with Mathen today were of the same blood he and his kin had spilt not a season ago.

Even so, there was one time when rivalries and enmities would be set aside for a while. No time of peace and joyous good will, this was a time when the warrior clans could unite and practice their art together rather than opposite one another. The time when the young warriors of every clan were called ‘prince’ and marched at the van.

When the Seers predicted the rise of the green-skinned daemons who marched from the lowlands, the Lands of Mists.

In the valley of Aceldama where the highlands met the lowlands like a shore meeting a lake their ancestors had gathered for generations to fight back the daemon hordes, and now the time had come again.

The foe had begun to reemerge, raids on the villages near the mist line had intensified and some villages had been wiped away entirely. The Seers had prophesied, the skies had cried fire in the night signifying the return of the Shadows of Death, and all these things meant that the foe would come upon them soon.

And the clans would answer the green-skinned tide with steel, blood and cleansing fire. The War Princes--and War Princesses, Mathen had been surprised to find--had gathered their hosts to face the threat and banish the monstrosities for another generation.

In the distance he could hear the screech of the scythe talons, the great riding saurians that would bear the mounted fury of the clans into battle. They hated the cold and the snows though they could endure both for long enough periods.

To ride a scythe talon was an honor most often reserved for women; men were too heavy for the lithe but deadly creatures.

He supposed it must be the Great Spirit’s method of keeping balance. Though his father, War Prince Vorlen, had many daughters only his sons and the sons of his warriors would represent their clan in the vanguard today.

The ‘princes’ could be the blood of a War Prince, or a fatherless mongrel, blood didn’t matter to the Seers. What mattered was that they were male and the greatest of their generation; the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, the hardiest or any and all of those things combined. They had to be young; no younger than ten years and no older than thirteen.

Mathen gripped his hammer tightly. In his clan he was the strongest and he had been given the war hammer of his father’s father. Kayren his younger brother of the same mother was their clan’s smartest youth, and Darken his same aged brother of a separate mother was the hardiest.

His cousin Jorgen was the fastest, his cousin Vorken the most blooded with more than a score of foes slain in his two years as a warrior.

Some others of their clan stood alongside them, totaling one and one half score, a proud number and respectable force for the clan of Vorlen resplendent in the white and yellow and gray of the high northern clans and the yellow of Clan Vorlen.

He could see Kayren trembling under his heavy fur cloak and placed a reassuring hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.

Mathen was not afraid. He had been before his first battle, but in the year since he had been blooded he had come to know that battle was not a thing to be feared.

It was a calling. Not every man or woman was suited to slaying, some were meant for planting and herding, for fixing and for thinking.

But still some were fit only for thieving and ruining the works of those others. It was for the warriors to stop them, to stand forth and protect the property and the lands of the War Prince and lives and livelihoods of the cousins and kin who could not defend themselves.

It was an honor to fight the green-skinned daemons, an honor to stand as part of the vanguard.

Kayren was blooded, but against a foe such as the green-skinned daemons Mathen supposed he could understand a bit of unease.

“No fear.” He told his brother. “Our father and our father’s fathers to the beginning of our blood have fought the monsters of the mists.”

“I’m not afraid of the mist-born.” Kayren said, “I only fear the Shadows of Death.”

Vorken laughed, “That old wives’ tale? You think giants in black armor with burning eyes are going to sneak up on us?”

“With swords made of teeth that scream like a thousand scythe claws?” Darken joined in the laughter.

This was no ridicule, only good-natured banter and Mathen told his brother, “You have to admit, we’d probably have seen one by now.”

“Or heard.” Jorgen put in, taking Kayren’s sword and imitating the scream of a scythe claw as he held it aloft.

The boys all laughed, even Kayren.

The wind kicked up as it began to snow. The scythe talons voiced their displeasure again and this time as if in answer the horns sounded.

Horns, horns, across Aceldama the clansmen blew their horns and from the mists Mathen could hear the sound of drums.

An old warrior stood at the front of the vanguard, a War Prince no doubt. He would be leading the charge though it would fall to the oldest prince of each clan to lead his kin. For the clan of Vorlen that honor fell to Vorken.

“Come on boys, time to earn your lines in the song of warriors!” Vorken shouted to them.

Mathen fell in behind the older boy with Kayren and Darken on his left and right. He gripped his ancestral war hammer and fixed his eyes to the distance where the mists met the snows.

The march began, the clan of Vorlen marched near the front of the van and the roars of the horns and the screams of the scythe talons were like fanfare to their ears.

Mathen steadied his resolve and held his hammer ready to strike as the pace quickened.

He could hear the drums more clearly now and he could see the horde of green-skinned monsters emerging from the mists and charging across the valley.

He could see their enormous mouths open wide enough to fit a man’s entire head and heard their blood stopping roar.

“ _Waaaagh_!”

The old War Prince at the front roared a response, the war cry of the clans and all the princes in the van were swept up in the call.

“Laytoom!”

The monsters came nearer and the sky grew dark as thousands of arrows flew overhead, a volley loosed by thousands of warriors from hundreds of clans.

It barely made a dent in the green tide that advanced, and now Mathen could see the monstrosities clearer.

The war prince raised his broadsword with a shout of, “Shields!”

The older princes relayed the order to their younger kin and quickly the princes raised their shields just in time to deflect a hail of sling stones.

One passed through the front ranks to strike Mathen’s shield with more force than anything he’d ever felt before and he was thrown off of his feet by the impact and heard a loud crack along with the screams of dozens of boys who hadn’t raised their shields in time.

Or else boys whose shields had not made a difference.

“Waaagh!” The monsters roared, far closer now.

Darken and Kayren quickly yanked Mathen to his feet, and he saw that his shield made of wood and iron had been shattered to splinters so he discarded it as another volley flew into the oncoming green sea.

The grizzled old war prince raised his sword again and roared, “Charge! Charge! Laytoom!”

“Laytoooom!” The princes of Vorlen roared and the vanguard advanced.

Mathen felt his heart pound in his chest as the ranks clashed. The thunderous cacophony deafened him as war and death cries alike broke out along the front ranks. Shields smashed against teeth the size of knives, stone axes struck chain mail and iron swords pierced thick green hide and fist met claw.

Some of the princes ahead of him threw their shields together creating a small wall that their kin could stab their spears through, and it seemed to work well until a smaller green daemon rolled between the legs of one boy, bringing a stone knife up as he rose slicing the unfortunate prince across the back so that he stumbled forward into the waiting claws of a larger green monster who brought a stone maul down on the boy’s head.

The sons of Vorlen charged, Darken punched out with his shield, its rim slamming into the throat of the smaller green beast throwing it backwards grasping its throat and gasping for breath until Jorgen’s spear ended its struggle.

The princes of the shield formation had already fallen into disarray; more of the smaller green monsters were swarming them while the larger one cut them down one by one.

Vorken threw himself at the larger beast with all his weight and force, and only succeeded in being knocked back himself.

The monster raised its stone axe into the air and Mathen rushed forward, thrusting his hammer out, striking the creature in the stomach.

He knocked the wind out of it and it fell back as Kayren thrust out, stabbing it in the stomach with his sword.

Mathen expected to see red blood and innards pour from the beast but there was only black ichor. It roared at them, but its voice was fading and Kayren silenced it forever as he rolled to his feet and swung his hammer into its head with such force that one of its beady eyes shot from its head and struck Mathen in the face.

Disgusting.

More of the green monsters charged, larger ones urging on their smaller, uglier counterparts and Mathen wondered for the briefest of moments if these gross monstrosities were somehow mimicking their own traditions. Were these smaller beasts the princes of the green horde?

It would be a question for the storytellers to pose around campfires he supposed. There was no time now.

One of the smaller beasts thrust out with a knife and Mathen lunged forward, thrusting his hammer out and taking the beast in the face before its stubby arm and short blade could reach him. He kept going, stomping its ruined face into the ground and striking out at one of its kin that tried to strike Jorgen with an axe that seemed entirely too large for it.

Mathen struck the axe out of its hands and let Jorgen skewer the thing through the chest.

Kayren’s shield deflected a blow that would have taken Mathen from behind, but before the young warrior could retaliate he found another of the little green beasts coming at him with a ball and chain that he must have stolen from a fallen prince.

He threw himself back and Jorgen’s spear was broken by the iron ball before he could remove it from the greenskin he’d felled.

Mathen was out of position to support his cousin, but Darken came on, throwing his axe.

It struck the runty monster in the shoulder and Jorgen thrust his broken spear shaft into its unarmored neck, snatching the iron ball and chain from its dying grasp as Mathen tore Darken’s axe from the corpse to toss it back to him.

Before he could however he was forced to use it to deflect an oncoming spear point. Kayren slammed his shield into the spear-runt giving Mathen time to toss Darken his axe then use both hands to bring his hammer down on the fallen beast.

He heard a screech and for a mad instant he thought he saw one of the Shadows of Death.

Clad in black armor beneath white robes the warrior he saw however was no Shadow of Death, but a scythe talon rider astride her mount.

“Laytoom!” She screeched with a timbre that nearly matched her steed’s, and her sisters echoed the cry as they charged into the fray, both riders and mounts slashing hacking and cutting their way across the enemy line.

Regardless of clan the riders wore black armor and white robes, it was said to be in mimicry of the Shadows of Death and Mathen thought for an instant that that was likely all that the Shadows of Death truly were; a legend impersonated by others so that a distracted mind might be fooled and take heart, even if only for an instant.

Nevertheless he felt a thrill of exhilaration as the riders cut a path through the enemy’s ranks giving the vanguard time to regroup, the princes of Vorlen leading the charge now.

Mathen was a little surprised to see the old War Prince was still alive, though his shield arm was hanging uselessly at his side.

A particularly large daemon charged for him, it held a stone axe in one hand and had what looked like a sharpened tusk lashed to its other arm. It caught the War Prince’s sword with its tusk, and then hacked into his abdomen with its axe.

The old warrior let out a blood-stopping cry and fell to his knees. He swung his sword with what must have been all his might and the large green skin deflected it again, this time with the axe and it thrust its spike into his chest with enough strength that it punctured the old man’s breastplate.

This monster was not like the others; it was enormous. Easily a head taller than the largest that Mathen had seen so far and stronger than anything he’d ever imagined.

And he felt its beady black eyes on him, its gaze locked and in a mad instant he was glad.

_Never mind my line in the song,_ he thought. _When I kill this beast they’ll write me an entire verse!_

It charged. Its legs were short; too short for its body, but they propelled it with blinding speed closing the distance between him and it in a heartbeat as it roared its guttural war cry, “Waaaaghhh!”

“Laytoom!” Mathen answered, and started to move forward, but Kayren beat him to the punch and sprinted ahead.

Mathen felt a moment of confusion and wanted to rebuke his younger brother but it was far too late. Kayren charged and then dropped down, curling up into a ball.

The big green-skinned daemon seemed almost as confused as Mathen was. It stumbled, apparently unsure whether it should stop and stab Kayren or just keep charging.

It tripped over its own over-sized feet, then it tripped over Kayren, who came up swinging his sword as his did, gashing it across the ankle.

It roared, this time in a mixture of pain and confusion as it fell to the ground. It had the presence of mind to kick Kayren though and he went flying.

Mathen rushed forward as the green monster began to try to struggle to its feet. He struck out with his hammer, knocking its knee backwards as it tried to rise and Jorgen slammed his iron ball into its face before it could rise to its full height and take such a tempting target from their reach.

Darken’s axe flew between the both of them and burred itself deep in the creature’s chest. It roared and swept both its arms out, knocking them all away. Its axe cut through Jorgen’s midsection and its spike threw Mathen aside like a rag doll.

The creature struck out again, this time its axe found Vorken’s shield and turned it to splinters, knocking the older boy to the ground in a spray of blood.

Mathen didn’t know if Vorken was alive or dead. He saw Kayren battling two of the smaller creatures at once, but two of their kin were rushing to his aid already.

Most were giving the green giant a berth. Most . . . but not Darken, who came in, swinging his shield hard at the green skinned giant and rolling with the swing to take the iron ball and chain from the fallen Jorgen.

Mathen didn’t have time to mourn his cousin; he took his hammer and rose to his feet. He charged for the giant screaming one last defiant “Laytoom!”

There was a sound like thunder and the giant’s head exploded.

Teeth and black gore flew everywhere; Mathen stared in confusion as the muscular green body slumped down in death.

Vorken rose shakily to his feet and Darken recovered his axe but they were both staring at Mathen.

Not at him, he realized. Behind him.

He turned slowly.

His heart stopped.

He beheld a giant in black armor with glowing red eyes. It was head and shoulders taller than any man Mathen had ever seen, so large it would have been able to look the green-skinned giant in the eye. It had massive dark blue pauldrons. Its knees were mismatched, the right was blue and the left was quartered in black, gray, green and white.

It wore a white loincloth and had a golden insignia over its chest of a sword with wings. Its own sword--if that was what it was--was blood red, except for the blade which was made of dozens of metal teeth just as the legends told, though it was motionless and silent hooked to its wearer’s armored waist.

In its hand was a smaller weapon, a sort of thin box with a smoky metal tube.

Without a word it lowered the weapon and drew its sword and it came to life, the teeth moving and roaring so loudly it made the scythe talons seem quiet.

The giant said nothing.

It walked past Mathen--carefully it seemed--and past Vorken and Darken.

Mathen could see a few others of its kind all calmly moving to the front and slowly it dawned on him that the daemons were fleeing now.

The Shadow of Death--for it could be nothing else--raised its sword and roared in a voice that sounded both human and alien to Mathen.

It spoke words he did not understand, its voice somehow seemed to echo and project from it and it and its brothers charged, running faster than any man had ever run and striking with greater speed and strength than any man could ever hope to achieve.

It hardly seemed necessary now, but Mathen found himself running along in their wake, he and Darken and Vorken and Kayren, all of their kin, all of the princes.

They charged and they slew anything that escaped the path of destruction the Angels cut. Horns blew and it was clear the green sea was being turned back.

The Shadows of Death were not satisfied with chasing the monsters to the edge of the mist though; they followed them and sounds of thunder and the roars of their swords carried up into the valley of Aceldama for hours.

Mathen realized he’d been wrong.

The Shadows of Death were no mere legend. They were real, they were fact, they were terror and doom.

And he had no doubt that he and his kin owed one of them their lives.

 


	2. The Culling

**Part II**

**The Culling**

 

On a high ridge looking down on the valley known to the locals as Aceldama two warriors stood side by side beneath a massive black wing.

One wore black armor with blue pauldrons ornate with golden Aquilas and crests and a long green cloak. The other wore blue armor with a white robe.

From a distance too far for a human eye to perceive they looked down into Aceldama watching the princes array themselves as the sun set.

“There are too many.” The warrior in black, Hamath, Master of the Recruits commented.

The warrior in blue, Nicodemus, Master of the Librarians chuckled as he leaned against his ornate Force Staff. There were more than a hundred young boys arrayed by the population of Krenim III.

After suppressing the planet’s feral Ork population the only slightly less feral inhabitants had feasted their ‘Shadows of Death’ and celebrated their victory, sending many of their surviving sons from the vanguard to await the opportunity to be chosen by the Shadows of Death to ascend and become like them.

One in ten might get that chance. On average the recruitment expedition would leave a planet with a dozen or so initiates, but with such an overabundance today it was likely that they would come away with twice that.

After the culling of course.

“It’s hardly a curse to have an abundance of prospective brothers.” Nicodemus told the Master of the Tenth Company. “I have every confidence that you will prove equal to the task of training these boys into Astartes.”

Hamath glowered at the Librarian and growled, “Thank you, Master Nicodemus, your confidence is noted. But I need warriors, not trash. Temelechus moved much too quickly. He should have waited until the numbers were thinner.”

“That guarantees you the surviving prospects, not necessarily the right prospects.” Nicodemus advised.

“We are a Chapter of survivors, born of a Legion of survivors.” Hamath scoffed. “If they could not survive feral Ork, what chance will they have to survive the galaxy? At least here they would have died with their people.”

Nicodemus smiled and ran his armored fingers through his white beard, “Well spoken, Master of the Recruits. But the culling will tell.”

“As it always does.” Hamath said as Veteran Sergeant Temelechus approached.

The young Astartes saluted his Masters and reported, “They are arrayed and prepared, Master Hamath. Will you address them?”

Hamath scoffed and said, “I think that’s your job tonight, Brother Sergeant. You were so zealous to fight alongside them, don’t shy away from them now.”

Nicodemus could not see Temelechus’ face under the mask of his helmet but he could tell from the way the armored Astartes went rigid that the order was unexpected and unwelcome.

“As you command even so, Company Master.” Temelechus said, saluting with the sign of the Aquila over his chest.

He marched back down the ridge, quicker and surer of foot than any mere mortal could have been, still to the Master of the Librarians his steps betrayed an uncertainty, and Nicodemus said to Hamath, “I can tell you are displeased with him, but wasn’t that a bit petty?”

“Petty?” Hamath scoffed. “You mistake my intent, Librarian. Temelechus is my Veteran Sergeant; my second in command. If he survives the job of training these cubs into lions will be his someday. I am only preparing him.”

Nicodemus smiled, “My mistake, Company Master.”

“Besides, if he suffers a bit of confusion as to why I’ve broken protocol perhaps it will cause him to think twice the next time he decides to do so himself.”

Nicodemus and Hamath both laughed and continued to watch down below as Temelechus strode towards the natives of Krenim III. Though Temelechus would be addressing the boys it was still Hamath’s duty to watch them and judge their worthiness and it was Nicodemus’s duty to observe them for signs of psychic potential.

Thus far none seemed readily present, but one could never tell with feral primitives, given the propensity for such individuals to be burned at the stake their powers would often be well hidden, especially in the presence of their ‘sky gods’.

_They can hide from man. Not from me._ The Master of Librarians thought with a grim smile.

 

Mathen felt his stomach growling. War was hungry and thirsty work, but as the feast for the Shadows of Death and the defeat of the Green skinned Daemons had raged on the surviving princes of the vanguard had been excluded.

It was part of the tradition, he’d been told by his father. They who had survived would stand and be judged by the great beings and for some reason that required an empty stomach.

Mathen saw the warrior that had saved him and his kin from the giant daemon. The Shadow of Death stood before a great bonfire, the only source of light apart from the fires lit at the feast of the clans a quarter mile to their backs.

He removed his black helmet to reveal a head that, in all important respects seemed human. His face was gaunt, but youthful, his skin was fair like sand, rather than the dusky tanned shade of the clansmen, and his hair was golden, his eyes were gray.

He spoke in their words now, and his voice carried over the entire gathering as he declared, “You young ones have proven your worth and have earned the right of consideration. You have shown us your martial prowess; now show us your obedience and endurance. If you succeed you will ascend; be raised up to become like us. If you fail you will be left here never becoming more than men.”

There was a murmur through the crowd, though Mathen could not tell if it was a positive or negative one.

The warrior spoke on saying, “This is an honor, but it is also a sacrifice. To wage war across the stars is to fight a war without end, to fight foes without number, to fight in the service of something greater than yourself, and to someday die in that service. When that day falls your names will not be remembered, your legends will not be told.”

Mathen felt conflicted; to fight foes without number across fields unknown was a warrior’s dream, it was the basis of so many legends and songs.

But to fight without glory was also a warrior’s nightmare. Without glory and renown who would remember you when you fell? Who would sing songs of your bravery and your courage? Who would sing of the foes you had felled? What pride could your heirs have in their sire?

To die was a warrior’s fate, and to die in battle was an honor. But to die unremembered and un-mourned . . . what value did a life of valor have then?

“We ask this thing of you but we do not demand it. If you feel the price is too great you may step away now; rejoin the feast and know that your honor is intact,” The giant warrior said and some boys, even some of Vorlen’s clan stepped away.

The Shadow of Death looked across the crowd and his eyes seemed to settle Mathen as he continued, “Those of you who remain have no guarantee of survival or success. The path you will walk will be long. One in a thousand is worthy to walk it and of them one in a hundred will survive it. But if you survive you will be death incarnate, you will be unbreakable, you will be an Angel of Death, and you shall know no fear.”

Under the stony gaze of the giant warrior Mathen could not bring himself to step away.

Many of the clan of Vorlen had survived to be chosen and many, including Kayren, Vorken and Darken still stood by his side. His kin gave him confidence and he knew that together they would surely succeed. They would ascend and rise to be counted among the Shadows of Death.

There was silence for a time, but no others walked away from the assembly. Finally the stone-eyed warrior said, “The test begins. You will stand exactly where you are. You will stand and you will wait, enduring the elements, enduring fatigue, enduring hunger. You will not speak, not amongst each other, not to yourselves, nor even to any of us. You will not move from your spot, not for any reason. Fall to sleep and fail, move to relief and fail. Finally you will not obey any command given to you until I return with the dawn to raise up those of you who have succeeded.”

Mathen had stood stone still before, but the sudden inability to move made it feel almost impossible to keep still suddenly.

The warrior replaced his helmet and turned away, withdrawing into the darkness.

The test had begun . . . and it was painfully boring.

Mathen had no reckon of time, but it seemed hours before he noticed one of the Shadows of Death come into the light of the fire.

He carried a bristle back slung over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. The giant tusked porcine beasts flourished in the mists and occasionally emerged to devastate crops. It could take many hunters and scythe talons to slay one, but this Shadow of Death had clearly taken it alone, and Mathen was impressed but not surprised.

He’d seen the Shadows of Death kill daemons; he didn’t doubt they could take bristle-backs down alone.

The Shadow threw the beast to the ground and pulled a knife from a scabbard at his hip.

What stood as a knife to him would have been a sword to any of them. He cut into and cleaned the beast in front of them, then began to cook the meat on the bonfire.

It may have been his empty stomach, but Mathen thought it was the finest scent he’d ever smelled.

The Shadow of Death removed his black helmet, revealing he too was human. This one had skin dusky and dark as Mathen’s own and spiked black hair worn in the tradition of some of the western clans.

He laughed as he took some of the meat and bit into it. He said to some nearby princes, and Mathen overheard, “Fear not, a growling gut doesn’t fail you. It has been a generation since I tasted the flesh of the beasts of my home. The boy I once was remembers the test, the uncertainty. You have no need to fear, it is all a formality. You’ve stood here, you’ve waited half the night; you are all worthy to join us.”

_He lies._ Mathen realized with shock.

Was that possible? Could a Shadow of Death lie? Mathen had never paid much attention to the legends before, he hadn’t thought they were true but now he wondered.

Could they be liars?

The shadow of death held some of the meat out to the boys he was speaking to and said, “Go on, eat little brothers. Your test is passed, even as I have said.”

Mathen found himself shaking his head, willing the other boys to keep their wits, to remember.

One of them did at first. His kin walked uncertainly forward and took a piece of the meat from the Shadow. He seemed nervous, but he ate and nothing horrible seemed to happen. The Shadow did not suddenly strike him, or banish him.

They simply sat together near the warmth of the fire and ate.

When the boy’s kin saw that nothing had happened he too went forward and took the meat the shadow of death had offered them.

“Come on.” The Shadow called, “Don’t be afraid. Eat. You will need your strength.”

Mathen shook his head in disbelief as more boys stepped forward; even one of his own kin went forward.

There had to be more than ten when the Shadow suddenly rose to his feet and told them softly, though not so softly that Mathen could not hear him, “You all . . . fail.”

 

The night wore on, Mathen remained standing in place.

Other Shadows had come and tempted the boys into moving, or into speaking. Some boys had collapsed and fallen asleep, or else been unable to withstand the snows. Those that fell were carried away by the Shadows of Death, no doubt to the underworld to suffer the fate of failures.

Others had simply given up and walked away.

Five of the clan of Vorlen had failed. Nine still remained. A cluster of pride and honor.

Until one of the shadows, spotting them had charged them, his screaming sword roaring. He’d raised it up and made as if to strike, three of their kin had leapt out of the way, along with several princes from other clans.

Mathen felt terror well up inside of him, and he did not know if he remained in place out of courage or shock, but he did remain in place.

The blade stopped short of slicing Darken in two. Mathen noticed it never actually passed through a place where a prince had stood; it had been just another test.

The Shadow stood back and held his hand out to Darken as if he meant to clasp wrists.

“You are brave. Take my hand, I honor you.”

Darken did not move.

“I honor you.” The Shadow repeated, holding his enormous hand out further and still Darken did not move.

The shadow drew his sword again and took a threatening step forward. He spoke quietly but with an unmistakable tone of menace, “You spit on my honor, boy? You think yourself above my respect? To move your hand would not move you from your stance, take my hand, or call me enemy.”

Mathen could see his half-brother was shaking, but otherwise Darken did not move.

He did not speak.

“Not so brave after all then. You shake like a leaf. Stupidity kept you in place, not courage.” The Shadow laughed and held his hand out to one of their other kin standing to the side of Darken.

Korken had not moved either when the sword had come and so no doubt he’d believed when the Shadow told him, “What of you? Are you a stupid coward as well? Are you too frozen to move just one hand and call me brother?”

Korken shook his head and quickly reached out to take the Shadow’s hand.

The Shadow yanked Korken out of his place with such speed and force that Mathen half expected his cousin’s arm to be torn from his shoulder. Korken fell to the ground, and rose with a look of confusion and terror on his face.

But the Shadow made no attempt to harm him further, and Korken’s arm did not seem damaged. Still the giant looked at them through blazing red eyes and said, “An Angel of Death cares nothing for the esteem of strangers. He is duty, he _is_ honor. You fail, trusting one.” He turned his gaze at Darken and said, “But you, wise one . . . you prove yourself. Come with me now, you have passed.”

Mathen swallowed a lump in his throat and willed his brother to ignore the Shadow.

_He lies, they all lie!_ Mathen thought angrily.

The Shadows of Death were warriors of terrifying strength. But they were also liars, they were cheaters, they were horrible uncaring things.

In that instant Mathen hated them. He hated them all and he wanted to scream at Darken, “Do not listen, he is a liar!”

But he held his tongue.

And Darken held perfectly still, no longer even trembling.

The Shadow laughed and stalked off into the darkness and for a moment Mathen wished he had spoken, he wished that Darken had moved.

Because part of him wanted to walk away. Wanted to take his kin and simply leave.

But another part of him, something deeper still within him refused to be defeated with trickery. He was a warrior, son of a War Prince; he had faced the green-skinned daemons. He would not be defeated by lies, nor would he be defeated by his own anger.

Even if he hated the test he had come too far to give up, too far to surrender.

Even to the Shadows of Death.

 

Finally the sun began to rise. Though the orange ball of light had not even begun to peek above the mountain line its first orange rays were beginning to light Aceldama.

There were nine Shadows of Death now, all without their helmets.

They all stood before the remaining princes, just over two score to Mathen’s perception.

The nine fell to one knee and bowed their heads. They were all the same ones who had tested them, all the same ones who had taunted and teased them.

Now they bowed and one of them said, “The daylight has come. You have passed. Come little brothers, step forward, and join us.”

Mathen felt triumph for a fleeting second. He had passed, he had succeeded.

_No._ A voice in his head whispered. _It’s another trick. Stay . . ._

It hadn’t sounded like the usual thoughts in his head, it had sounded more like Kayren's voice. But Mathen knew his brother had not opened his mouth to speak.

Perhaps he was imagining things, but all the same he realized that it was true.

The nine stood their armor all the same in color, but they wore different crests and iconography. All of the Shadows of Death had removed their helmets and no two looked exactly alike. Many different colors of skin, of eyes, of hair, but none were the sand-skinned golden haired warrior from before, the one who had saved him and his kin.

_Just another test, just another lie._ Mathen realized.

Still easily more than half a score of princes walked uncertainly forward towards the warmth of the fire.

And yet again the Shadows spoke quietly, almost apologetically this time and told each in turn, “You have failed.”

When the sun had finally begun to rise above the mountain line ushering in the dawn proper they heard a sound like thunder.

A black bird rose from the mountain ridge in the distance, and it came towards them with great speed.

As it flew towards them Mathen could see its size was immense, and its roar was the sound of thunder they had heard. Sounds of amazement rose from the camp of the clans to their backs, but the princes spoke not a word.

The great beast--for it was no bird--flew towards them on a trail of flame, descending as it neared them.

It slowed and touched the ground with four stubby legs, two near the rear and two near its large cycloptic head. It had two large wings that did not flap; it seemed to have been the cause of the tail of flame which had now disappeared.

It opened its maw wide, revealing innards of steel and three Shadows of Death, one of them clearly a War Prince, resplendent in black and blue armor like the rest but adorned with golden insignias and crests and a long flowing cloak as green as the forest. His helmet had two dark gray wings stretching upwards and his pack had a crest like a golden sun rising behind his head.

The other was clearly a seer; he had no helmet but wore a metal hood over his head. All of his armor was blue, and his tabard was white. His short beard was white too, though his face seemed no older than that of Mathen’s own father, a man not two score in years. He held a staff that seemed to be gold, but it crackled with lightning. Its head was the skull of man with long curved horns and on the top of his pack was an open book with words alien to Mathen that seemed to glow on its pages. At his hip was another book, this one bound by chains.

Though these two paragons were impressive the most important figure, at least to Mathen’s eyes was the third figure that stood to the right of the first.

It was him, it was his face, it was his armor, and it was his voice: It was the warrior from before, the one that had saved him and his kin.

“Come,” He called to them, “The test is passed.”

No one moved at first and he took a step towards them saying, “This is no trick, you have passed. Know that we test you only to protect you. We can be cruel, but the stars above are far crueler. Better that the unfit should fail here, than up there. So do not fear us now, do not hate us for long. You have passed; you have taken your first step on a road that few can even dream of walking.”

Finally it was Kayren who moved forward.

Mathen watched his little brother advance towards the great beast and then found himself moving along with him.

If this were a trick they failed together.

Darken fell in with him, then Vorken, then their remaining kin a cousin named Tyrgen.

The rest followed the clan of Vorlen.

The nine other Shadows went into the maw of the beast before them, the one from before and the War Prince and the Seer waited for them as they walked up the mouth into the beast’s belly.

The seer’s eyes seemed to rest firmly on Kayren and for a moment Mathen feared that they had been fooled one last time.

But the seer placed a gentle--if giant--hand on the small boy’s shoulder and said, “Welcome child. Your gifts in particular will not go to waste.”

 

Nicodemus stroked his beard as Temelechus and the Tenth Company’s Veterans secured the newest neophytes.

As with any Astartes Chapter the Tenth Company was almost entirely composed of scouts, the initiates of the Chapter. True Astartes stood in their number only as instructors and teachers, for true Astartes were needed in the other nine companies of the chapter.

However when recruiting from Krenim III it was tradition to honor the inhabitants with a full squad of company veterans, so Master Hamath’s honor guard as well as some of the Company’s Veteran Sergeants would don their honored Power Armor and take to the field.

As such some of the Brothers securing the neophytes now could well be the ones to train them if they succeeded in becoming initiates.

Nicodemus couldn’t suppress a smile as he strapped himself into his seat.

He was always pleased when at least one future librarian could be discovered among the neophytes. He believed that the legion was sorely lacking in those capable of bending the Warp, and while they might not be widely recognized for it the Master of Librarians knew that the sons of The Lion had a great need for more of his kind.

He nodded to Veteran Sergeant Temelechus as he strapped himself in to a seat near him.

“You did well, Veteran Sergeant.” Nicodemus told him.

The sergeant shrugged, his mood uncharacteristically phlegmatic as he said, “My thanks, Master Nicodemus. But I have witnessed Master Hamath perform the culling many times; I only did as I have observed from him.”

Nicodemus smiled and continued stroking his beard. “I did not mean the culling, though you performed that to satisfaction as well.” The sergeant’s stony eyes betrayed a bit of confusion, and Nicodemus explained, “I praise your work in procuring the newest neophytes. The smallest one might not have survived had you not acted as quickly as you did. His gift would have been lost to the Chapter.”

Temelechus nodded, “I am pleased to have served my purpose in this matter then, Master of the Librarians.”

Nicodemus’ smile didn’t falter. Like most Astartes Temelechus was uncomfortable around psykers. The perils and horrors of the Warp terrified mortals, and while the Astartes knew no fear they could nevertheless be made to feel . . . uncomfortable.

But Nicodemus had had nearly two centuries to grow accustomed to the prejudice.

“Might I ask you a question, Veteran Sergeant?” The Master of Librarians asked.

“Of course.” Temelechus answered quickly.

“Why did you intervene early?”

“I mistook the Ork I fired on for the war party’s overall commander. I knew the boys would be insufficient to the task and intervened in the hope of throwing the enemy army into confusion.”

Nicodemus did not break eye contact and simply continued smiling.

He did not have to pry into Temelechus’ mind; the assumption would be that he was doing so anyway.

Temelechus hesitated, and then cast his eyes downward as if he were ashamed.

“I have watched many battles as an observer,” He said in a hushed tone. “I have fought men, I have slain men, I have led boys into war and forged them into Astartes and through it all I have watched hundreds of them die. These ones had spirit, bravery . . . only they faced a foe they could not hope to conquer.”

“It happens.” Nicodemus said simply.

“They could not conquer their foe. _I_ could.” Temelechus said quietly. “If they join our ranks I understand that there will be battles they cannot hope to win. Someday they will fall, as will I, as will we all. But in that moment I had the power to act, and so I acted.”

“Yes, you did.” Nicodemus nodded, glancing at the primitive boy called Kayren.

“I will confess my failings to Chaplain Ithamar when we return to the _Dominion_.” Temelechus said resolutely.

“And what failing is that?” Nicodemus raised an eyebrow. “Was it the procurement of twenty six neophytes, or was it the rapid and efficient devastation and containment of the Xenos threat?”

“Yes. All of it.” Temelechus said. “I have displeased Master Hamath, and procured too many neophytes. They are likely of inferior quality.”

Nicodemus shook his head, “If Master Hamath were displeased you may take my word that he would make it very plain. As for the neophytes, they have all endured The Culling and that makes them worthy at least of coming this far. Your only failing now is in doubting their quality and your own, Veteran Sergeant. If you must confess to the company Chaplain confess that. Do not torture yourself for deeds well performed.”

Temelechus seemed to consider for a moment before finally nodding and saying, “As you command even so, Master of the Librarians.”

“I command nothing,” Nicodemus said, “I only advise. Of course, only a fool would ignore the council of a Master of the Librarius. We see into your mind and know you better than you know yourself.”

Temelechus nodded gravely and Nicodemus laughed. The Veteran Sergeant seemed surprised by the outburst and the Master of Librarians said, “I’m joking with you, brother!”

Some of the other Astartes chuckled and Company Master Hamath gave Temelechus a light pat on the armored shoulder. “Master Nicodemus is especially prone to failed comedic outbursts. Luckily we will be leaving him behind once we rendezvous with the fleet.”

Nicodemus smiled and said, “I will be sure to assign you an Epistolary even less adept than I at comedic outbursts.”

“We can only hope.” Hamath grunted, “Past a certain point failed comedy becomes comedic.”

The Company Master gave Temelechus another slap on the shoulder and said, “Good work culling the recruits, Veteran Sergeant. I believe I can work with these whelps.”

“Thank you, Company Master.” Temelechus said as Hamath strapped himself in and the Thunderhawk began its ascent.

 


	3. Tales of the Lion

 

 

**Part III**

**Tales of the Lion**

 

Ithamar watched as dozens of young new neophytes were unloaded from the Thunderhawk transport.

“An unusually large batch from Krenim III.” Ambriel, Apothecary of the Tenth Company commented. “Master Hamath must have been more lenient than usual.”

Ithamar sighed and watched as the Company Master emerged from one of the black and blue transports flanked by the Master of Librarians and his Veteran Sergeant.

“I do not favor the crop of Krenim.” Ithamar commented, holding the ornate skull helmet of his office in his armored hands. “The culling should have been sterner to spare me the primitives.”

Ambriel laughed and said, “The culling is the culling. It is as stern as it is and always has been. If you find Master Hamath’s way wanting, why do you not attend? As Company Chaplain you have the right.”

“It is my right, it might even be expected, but it is not required.” Ithamar answered.

“Ah.” The Apothecary said knowingly. “Then shall I add the culling to the long list of things you do not favor, brother?” Ambriel chuckled.

“The culling may be a tradition that dates all the way back to Caliban itself, but it smacks too close to religious ritual for my taste. The ending in particular is needlessly messianic.” Ithamar said as he pulled his helmet onto his shaved head.

“You read too much into it. Your title alone has its origins in religion, does it not?” Ambriel told him. “Is a Chaplain not simply a priest of sorts?”

The Company Chaplain allowed himself a rare smile beneath the sanctuary of his skull helmet. “I will inform Master Nicodemus that your schooling has come up wanting, Apothecary. A Chaplain is not a priest, he is a guide. It is my duty and honor to guide these primitives from the darkness of ignorance and into the light of Imperial Truth.”

“Then why do you not favor Krenim’s crop? Is it not a perfect opportunity for you to practice your . . . sermon?”

Ithamar scoffed, “Because if we simply established an outpost on Krenim to educate them in the Truth instead of letting them believe us to be sky spirits or gods or whatever they believe us to be I would not lose so much time convincing them of what should be common knowledge to all mankind.”

Ambriel stroked his angular chin thoughtfully, “I recall the time the boy I once was first heard the Imperial Truth. Company Chaplain Remiel stared that child square in the eye and--”

“You never were a child,” Ithamar interrupted before the Apothecary could begin a long and unwanted story. “you have always been Ambriel; thorn in my side.”

The cheerful Apothecary laughed, “Ambriel the Thorn, is it? It will help me to stand out from all the others.”

“As if you needed help. Your laugh alone would ring through the histories.” The Chaplain scowled as he began his march towards the recruits. The Company Apothecary following quickly in his wake, laughing of course.

Their long strides brought them to the two Masters quickly and Ithamar and Ambriel both saluted with the symbol of the Aquila and bowed slightly to their superiors, though it irked Ithamar to acknowledge Nicodemus as such.

Though the Librarius existed outside of the chain of command as Master of the Chapter’s Librarians Nicodemus was considered to hold a place of honor and a seat on the Chapter's Council. Though Ithamar would be free to ignore any of the Librarian’s orders it would be petty of him to do so, and he knew it.

Nevertheless he had no affection for any tainted by the Warp. He recognized their usefulness in battle, and in interrogation but it was the ruinous powers and perils of the Warp that had brought their Legion to shame.

The shame that had set them on the path of redemption those millennium ago.

Nicodemus simply smiled and asked, “Was this harvest's crop from Thermius acceptable to you, Brother Chaplain?”

“Very much so.” Ithamar said curtly.

“Brother Ithamar was just telling me how he prefers the civilized worlds to the feral.” Ambriel piped up helpfully.

“Noted. How was your culling, Apothecary?” Master Hamath asked Ambriel, who shrugged his armored shoulders.

“More severe than yours it would seem. I brought back only seven.”

“Seven is a good number, it is two more than they yielded when last we visited.” Nicodemus said with a smile.

Ithamar scoffed, “If you recall, Master, only one of those five became an Astartes.”

“If every world in the Imperium could produce just one boy who was worthy of becoming an Astartes the enemies of mankind would have great cause to fear.” Nicodemus said in what he no doubt thought a wise tone.

“The enemies of mankind have great cause to fear already,” Ithamar said in a tone he acknowledged as dangerously close to a scoff at his technical superior, “the sons of the Lion guard mankind.”

“And the sons of Dorn, and of Russ, and of the Khan,” Nicodemus said, “a thousand Chapters born from nine loyal Legions to defend an empire spanning billions of worlds. The might of the Astartes may guard mankind, Brother Chaplain, but the might of the Astartes is stretched thin.”

“Quality outdoes quantity,” Master Hamath broke in, “do your duty well Brother Ithamar, I want lions to train, not dogs.”

“As you command, even so.” Ithamar said, nodding appreciatively to the Company Master. “I will begin immediately.”

 

 

 

Mathen could not believe the sights before his eyes. They had been brought into some sort of lodge house in the heavens. They were surrounded by men in brown robes and more Shadows of Death, some in their black armor, others wearing white robes or tunics.

It was easy to tell the difference between a man and a Shadow. The Shadows, even outside of their black plate armor stood head and shoulders above normal men.

One Shadow of Death seemed to be Death itself. He was dressed in black armor with only a single blue pauldron and the crest on his knee like those of the other armored Shadows. His other pauldron, knee and his helm were all polished white skulls.

At his left was a warrior in white armor who also wore just one blue pauldron and the knee crest of the others, but his other pauldron was white with a red symbol of some sort drawn down its middle. It looked to Mathen like two snakes intertwined.

They both crossed their arms and held their fingers splayed across their chest and bowed, then spoke words he did not understand to their feather-helmed king and he nodded in response.

They spoke for some length and Mathen felt as if he understood some of their words, but not many.

A man--a normal man--in a gray robe came before them. He was tall, though not as tall as the Shadows. He had short brown hair and skin of an almost orange hue. His eyes were gray, like his robes and his face was clean shaven. Over his left eye he wore a large metal decoration with black cords leading into his left ear. The decoration had a red lens that seemed to glow and Mathen wondered if the man could see through it.

Whether he could or not however, the tall man said to them in their own tongue, “Sons of Krenim, I am Dagon, a Chapter Serf. Do not mistake my title, I am not your servant and I will not take your orders. I am instructed in the tongue of Krenim Three, the world from which you hail and it will be my duty to teach you to speak proper Imperial Gothic in time. For today your lessons will be delivered in your native tongue, are there any questions?”

For Mathen at least there were many, but if the others shared his wonder no one dared to ask. Like him Mathen guessed they must be too astounded by the sights around them.

He had slept while they had been carried away from his home in the belly of the great metal bird and though he knew that he had awoken it seemed as if he were still trapped in a dream.

Dagon nodded at their stunned silence and said, “I was once like you; a boy taken from his world to a new wider universe. You will come to understand it all in time.”

Mathen fell in beside Kayren and Tyrgen at the head of the mob of young princes. They followed Dagon, leaving the armored warriors behind to their discussion.

For a long time there were no words as they walked, only the sound of boots on metal and the soft hum of hushed conversations in a language Mathen did not know spoken by groups of men in robes.

He saw many men, some were Shadows of Death, others were mortal men, likely more serfs like Dagon.

He saw many tapestries and colored glass windows, all seemed to depict the Shadows of Death and others in armor like theirs, but colored differently.

Many wore all black, or all green armor, some wore black and green, some wore white, or red, the armor in many of the pictures was different but one constant was the black and blue armor of the Shadows of Death.

And every picture was of war; the Shadows fought more green-skinned monsters, or they fought strange men, or monsters.

“What are all these murals?” Kayren spoke up.

“The tapestries depict battles fought by the Chapter. Honored wars waged alongside brothers of the Legion, or cousins from other Legions. Wars waged against the heretic, the Xenos, and the Ruinous Powers.”

“What are those?” Mathen wondered, “The Ruinous Powers I mean.”

“The Powers that drive men to Chaos, spawn the Heretic, and birth the Daemon. They are the powers that you will have to learn to combat if you become an Astartes.” Dagon answered.

“The Shadows of Death have fought a lot of wars.” Darken commented quietly.

“And they will fight many, many more.” Dagon said, though Mathen was amazed that the man could hear Darken’s words. “They are the truest of warriors. That is what it means to be an Astartes.”

They were led to a large circular room that seemed to be made of stone.

Dagon directed them to sit on any of several rows of stone benches that ringed a stone platform at the room's center. The princes sat according to clan, leaving some boys to sit alone. Their numbers did nothing to fill the massive room, Mathen could see that the room had space for many others, hundreds perhaps.

There were other humans dressed like Dagon, more serfs Mathen assumed, but the people seemed secondary to the sheer size of the room and the fact that every foot of wall was covered in tapestries, or an enshrined weapon of amazing craftsmanship.

Mathen could see hammers, mauls, swords and axes of a size too massive for a normal man to even attempt to carry, and it all enforced in his mind the fact that the Shadows were spirits of the beyond. Great and terrible spirits of war that had selected him and his kin to join their ranks.

Then Mathen had an odd thought and he wondered if he and his kin had died in the vanguard. Was this the life after?

The Shadow of Death with the skeletal helm and black armor certainly looked like a keeper of souls. It made Mathen a little nervous to see him again as he walked into the center of the room, surrounded by the seats that he and the others began to take.

It wasn't fear the boy felt, just nervousness.

The Shadow stood before them and spoke in their words.

“Welcome to the Reclusiam, neophytes. You have survived war against a Xenos foe, the culling of the weak of body and mind, and now you sit in a hallowed hall of legends. In time some of you may become Astartes, but that is unlikely. The process is long, arduous and usually fatal. Those of you who do not die may still fail. If your heart contains any doubt then fail quickly while the path of the serf remains open to you.”

Mathen frowned. Who would choose to become a serf? Why would anyone promised an eternity of warfare choose servitude instead?

_Perhaps it's not a choice._ Mathen thought to himself, noting that the skull-masked warrior had said to fail while the path was open.

_Then what closes the path?_ Mathen wondered, hoping he could prove himself better than a serf quickly enough that it would never be a danger.

“You are all free to ask questions when I pause, but not while I am speaking . . . I hate to repeat myself.” The warrior said. He began to pace the center of the room as he continued, “I am Ithamar, Brother-Chaplain of the Tenth company. Those of you good enough to become initiates will belong to the Tenth company until you prove yourselves and earn your names.”

Ithamar paused a moment, but it was a moment before anyone dared to voice a question.

It was Vorken who managed the courage to speak, asking, “What do you mean 'earn our names' master?”

Ithamar nodded and said, “A common question. The boys you are have the names given by their mortal mothers and fathers. The Astartes you hope to become is immortal and those of you who succeed will leave your old lives and your old names behind. Not even a memory, you will be reforged and given a new name to mark your rise as Astartes.”

“What is Astartes?” A boy Mathen didn't know asked.

“The Adeptas Astartes are the most powerful and devastating warriors mankind has ever produced. We must be, for without us mankind would be doomed to face the cold and unwelcoming stars alone. We are the shield that protects humanity and the hammer that strikes down all foes.  
“An Astartes is unbreakable and unstoppable doom. You will owe no fealty to any mortal father, instead you will owe your loyalty to the father of our Legion; the Lion El'Jonson. Remember that name, for it is owned by the greatest of The Emperor's sons!”

“Who is the Emperor?” Another boy asked.

“In terms you can understand he is the greatest of War Princes. In terms less insultingly simplistic he is the master of mankind, the father of the Primarchs. The guardian and guide of humanity, and the only being to stand above our beloved Primarch. Loyalty to the Lion is loyalty to the Emperor, and these two things will never come into conflict. All of humanity owes everything it has and everything it ever will have to the Emperor of Mankind, even your very lives.”

“The Emperor is the great spirit?” Kayren asked suddenly. He had barely had time to ask before Ithamar barked a response.

“The Emperor is a man!” The giant's voice boomed and echoed through the room though he had barely raised it. Mathen felt like he could hear exasperation mixed in with the more obvious scorn. Could a Shadow of Death become exasperated?

“He is the greatest man that ever lived to reign over the stars,” Ithamar clarified to a room full of confused faces, “but a man nonetheless. Many ascribe titles of godhood to him, claim him to be something higher than humanity can ever hope to achieve, but I tell you now that this is false. A lie that mankind clings to for comfort against the cold and uncaring reality that is the universe.

“The Astartes know what humanity has allowed itself to forget: that the Emperor is no deity, no 'great spirit' because there _are_ no deities. No great spirits. No gods. The stars offer no salvation, or everlasting love. Only death.”

Mathen shook his head in confusion, but Ithamar did not pause for questions. He carried on, declaring, “The Emperor _does_ posses incredible power, far beyond the dreams and aspirations of most mortals, this much _is_ true. But to claim that this proves his divinity is to sell short humanity itself and its potential for while the Emperor is peerless he should nevertheless be the shining example that all mankind may aspire to.”

Ithamar paused, but no one asked any questions. Mathen just wanted to hear more. He wanted to understand because for the moment he didn't. He had never been one to believe too strongly in Great Spirits, but he had never had much cause to doubt their existence; it was simply something he had accepted. But if the Shadows of Death said there were no great spirits then that must be so.

And if they said the Emperor was not the Great Spirit then he must not be. As Ithamar had said, he must have been the most powerful of War Princes to father sons who would in turn father the Shadows of Death and their many brothers and cousins from the tapestries.

The black armored Chaplain told them many things that day, and Mathen fought against his hunger and fatigue to understand it all. As the great warrior spoke Mathen became aware of many robed figures who came into the Reclusiam to hear his words.

Most were men and even some women dressed in gray robes like Dagon, more chapter Serfs, Mathen reasoned.

But some others were giants who stood head and shoulders above those other men. They wore beige robes, or their black Armor, for Mathen knew these giants must be the Shadows of Death.

But awareness of the ever filling Reclusiam didn't distract Mathen from the words Ithamar spoke. He listened to talk of Terra, the birthplace of all humanity and the center of the Imperium of Man, the clan that covered all of the stars, the clan that counted its number in worlds rather than men and yet was still beset on all sides by traitorous filth and Xenos monsters.

He learned the names of some of the Emperor's sons, the brothers of the Lion. He was taught of Rogal Dorn, the stubborn guardian and father of the Imperial Fists. The sad tale of the fallen Ferrus Manus, father of the Iron Hands, and Roboutte Guilliman, the tactician who had written the strict codex that more than half the Chapters obeyed as if it were a holy script.

“But the Lion understood that no tactic is perfect, no book can ever adhere to every situation.” Ithamar assured them. The Lion had taught his sons that adaptability and strategy were integral if the Adeptas Astartes were to protect mankind. Where Guilliman was the tactician the Lion was the strategist and both had known their successes and their failures.

Mathen had allowed himself a moment to wonder why the two brothers did not work together; surely together they could have been unstoppable; Guilliman planning for every threat and El'Jonson adapting to the unexpected.

He wondered, if he became a Shadow of—that was, if he became an Astartes, if he might ask the Lion himself. He knew that brothers working together were far more effective than a single warrior alone, no matter how gifted.

Guilliman was the father of the Ultramarines, and their many, many descendants, Ithamar had said.

Ithamar also spoke of the Lion's other brothers, like Sanguinius who had fallen, giving his life for his father the Emperor.

Mathen barely understood why he felt sadness when he heard of the Lion's fallen brothers, Ferrus and Sanguinius, and some of the boys shed tears at the tales.

He'd fought not to do the same, in case it was some other test but even some of the gray robed Serfs wiped their eyes when Ithamar spoke of the Gorgon Ferrus, and the Angel Sanguinius.

He also learned of Corax the stealthy and subtle father of the Raven Guard, Vulkan the master of the forge and father of the Salamanders, Jaghatai Khan of the White Scars, the master of mounted combat and Leman Russ, the Wolf, the savage and brutal warrior who had rivaled and battled the Lion for a day and a night.

“It is a rivalry that we their sons carry on to this day,” Ithamar told them, “though the brothers turned to fists in a moment of outrage we and our cousins battle with sword and skill not out of hatred or anger but out of mutual respect. We fight and push each other to greater heights, ever improving so that we can be worthy rivals. The truest test for an Astartes is another Astartes, and through our rivalry we are both kept strong and prepared for the true enemy.”

Though, Ithamar had told them, not every son of the Lion or the Wolf saw it that way, and there were many who saw the rivalry more as an excuse for open hostilities. Some in both Legions saw each other's Primarch as responsible for a treacherous blow leaving them and their Legion beneath any respect. The Wolf for the strike that began the brawl, the Lion for the strike that ended it.

But as a boy who had grown up with many brothers Mathen could understand why the Lion and the Wolf would fight not out of hatred, but simply out of anger and how that quarrel, no matter how bitter, showed a bond that seemed lacking in the other stories.

For all the brothers that the Chaplain mentioned, there were precious few stories of how the Lion _related_ to them. He disagreed with Guilliman, he respected Sanguinius and Ferrus for their sacrifice it seemed, he had no hatred for Vulkan or Corax, he had quarreled with the Wolf . . .

Mathen felt a sudden and unexpected pang of loneliness for the Lion. Had this first son of the Emperor had no friends among his family? Had not one of his brothers been anything more than a rival to him? Even among the War Princes there were allies and friends and shared blood meant a great deal. Even if the Primarchs were to a War Prince what a Scythe Claw was to an ant it seemed to Mathen that that at least should have been the same.

Hadn't there been anyone that the Primarch of the Dark Angels could freely embrace as a true brother? Mathen thought of what it would have been like to see all of his own brothers as potential rivals, to have cooperated so little with them, to mistrust them all to one degree or another.

To be so alone, to have no one to share his dreams or his secrets with. To have lacked Darken, or Kayren his whole life, to have never looked up to Vorken, or shared in Jorgen's laughter. To have brothers, equals, peers, and still be alone.

It seemed strange, but the Lion's quarrel with Russ seemed like the most genuine act of brotherhood the Chaplain spoke of and yet it was a story of two brothers battling each other.

Ironically it was this that finally brought a single tear to Mathen's eye before he could furiously wipe it away and hope that he had not failed another test.

Though he felt the Chaplain's gaze on him as he did it, and he felt a spike of terror though Ithamar did not stop speaking or acknowledge the act in any way.

The melancholy didn't last long though, for once the talk of the Emperor's sons was concluded Mathen learned so much more. He learned of Caliban and its great beasts and how the Lion had led the predecessors of their Legion in purging those forests and making the world a delightful place by all accounts. He was told of the Emperor's coming to Caliban, and reuniting with his lost son.

And he heard more of the Emperor. The minutes became hours, his hunger and fatigue were forgotten as Ithamar spoke on, telling them of that shining jewel Terra, and of the Emperor of Mankind.

“The Emperor reigns from the Golden Throne on Holy Terra; the birthplace of mankind. The first village if you like,” Ithamar clarified, though it was unnecessary by now, Mathen at least understood the grand scale, these were not villages these were stars, and every star they spoke of had a world, some even larger than his home, most of them more spectacular and beautiful.

“It is said that there the Emperor knows all and protects mankind. This is true, but not in the literal sense. The cosmos and her mysteries are a book that mankind should be free to read and while the Emperor has read them it remains for humanity to do the same . . . but not until mankind is ready, for the stars may shine brightly but the galaxy itself is a dark and terrifying place. There are some secrets better left unshared, but not unknown. The Emperor knows them, and when humanity is ready he will share them.”

Ithamar finally removed his skull helmet, revealing a shaved head that seemed neither old nor young, neither strictly speaking handsome or ugly. It was a face that had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of battles, that had dealt death for decades, or perhaps, Mathen realized with a cold chill, centuries.

“Humanity has a saying,” Ithamar told them, “They say simply, 'the Emperor protects.' The Astartes speak it as well, because we are his tools in that endeavor. We are the guardian that walks besides humanity as they explore the stars. As they learn, as they grow, as they claim their birthright as the masters of the universe and its myriad secrets. We are the shield that protects humanity, and the hammer that strikes down all foes.” The Chaplain said.

The last sentence he'd spoken before, but this time every Astartes, those robed and those armored all joined him in speaking it, and Mathen knew the words were of importance to them.

Ithamar looked at the assembly and actually smiled as he said, “You must be the greatest humanity has to offer in order to be its defender. If you are worthy we will shape you as best we can, and some of you may well become Astartes. You will be tested in mind, body, and spirit, you will become, as you put it, the shadow of death. You will become Dark Angels, the sons of the Lion, warriors of the First Legion.

“If you are worthy, you may well join our Chapter as Battle Brothers. You may wear the mantle of Dark Angel, you may become one of the Redeemers of Caliban.”

Then Ithamar's smile became menacing and feral as he added, “But most of you will only die trying.”

 

 

 


	4. Never Forget

**Part IV**

**Never Forget**

 

Life continued to become stranger and stranger for Mathen and his brothers after that day in the Reclusiam. He and the other sons of Krenim had endured the painful physical examinations to ensure that they would be capable of becoming Astartes someday. If they had proven unfit physically they would have been condemned to the path of the Chapter Serf even after everything they'd endured.

None of them failed, but the fear of it had been almost as bad as the medical procedure itself.

_Almost._

But once that was behind them there were lessons to be endured and suddenly sheer strength wasn't enough anymore.

There were lessons and instruction in Imperial history, strategic and tactical thinking. Weapons training which Mathen enjoyed, regular exercises that he excelled at and routine bouts of meditation that he found more frustrating than relaxing.

There were lessons in Gothic and the boys were encouraged to speak it as much as they felt able, but the Chapter Serfs that watched over them were all fluent in the language of Krenim and Mathen learned that his native tongue was itself a form of Gothic mutated after perhaps thousands of years. That helped him, though he wasn't sure how long it had taken him to speak the language confidently since it was also difficult to tell the passing of days.

Not just because life on-board a star ship passed without sunrise or sunset, but also because Krenim had had twenty-two hour days arranged in what they called tendays. The Imperials used twenty-four hour days arranged in what they called weeks which lasted only seven days.

Over time he found he'd gotten used to that as well, though it took longer. Still, comfortable with the passage of time and the tongue he was meant to speak Mathen had begun to feel more at home in the stars.

In fact he barely had time to think of the home he'd left behind after a while. His days were strictly scheduled. In order to help prepare them for life as Astartes the Neophytes followed a schedule of training and battle preparation, studies and meditation.

They sang too, Mathen was surprised to learn. As the warrior lodges of the clans had been filled with the song of warriors praising their ancestors and the Shadows of Death so too did the neophytes sing songs of Caliban, the Dark Angels and the Redeemers of Caliban, most of the latter invented by the Chapter Serfs.

Many Chapter Serfs had tried to walk the path of the Astartes and failed, but many more had been born into the Chapter or volunteered their service to the Chapter. Every Astartes in the Chapter was given the respect Mathen might have expected a War Prince to receive and soon Mathen understood each Astartes had to be a warrior beyond the pale of even the War Princes.

Their names were all known, their stories were known though none of them were written. There were rare occasions when the Chapter would call on the Serfs to fight alongside them, though none of the Serfs that Mathen had met had seen it in their lifetimes.

They knew the stories though, and if the Neophytes performed well they were allowed to hear some of them.

Mathen and his brothers and cousins always performed well. They fought well as a team, they were learning to fight well alone. They weren't the fastest runners, though Vorken had the greatest endurance of their troop and it got him noticed very quickly.

Kayren was the most accurate shot of all of them and Mathen and Darken were usually among the top of the daily list in hand to hand combat. They only slipped when they fought each other, then they tended to fight to a draw and this was frowned upon.

“No stalemate, no surrender, an Astartes overcomes!” Instructor Voljen would often remind them, though Mathen didn't understand what he was supposed to do if he met an opponent that matched him as thoroughly as Darken did.

Battle training would come after meditation and sometimes it made meditation, an act Mathen did not enjoy, even less bearable. It was impossible to find his center and reflect on himself and his duty to humanity if all he could do was hope he wouldn't have to fight Darken in the sparring circles.

Mathen found himself taking his evening meditation under a large tapestry of an Astartes with a flowing green cloak and the helmet of a Company Master. His head, free of the helmet was shorn and his eyes were gray. His skin was the beige cream color of most of the Chapter's murals, lighter than Mathen's own by a few shades.

Mathen didn't find the meditation relaxing, or even pleasant but for the half hour before the sparring, but sometimes he would spend the whole time just admiring the tapestries in the halls of the ship's habitation level.

Some displayed battles and the boy found himself imagining the fights, using what he learned of strategy and tactics to imagine how the armies might have been deployed, how they might have fought and how the victors had won, how the defeated might have overcome. He let his imagination weave images as intricate as any tapestry instead of letting it rest and perhaps that was why meditation was such a waste for him.

The neophytes were not meant to treat meditation as free time, they were meant to reflect on what it would mean to be an Astartes and try to find peace and clarity as the day's lessons continued. All Mathen could do to find peace and reflect on what it would mean to be an Astartes however was to look at the tapestries, and this one in particular.

It hung in a corridor of the _Unrivaled Dominion,_ one of the three Battle Barges of the Redeemer's of Caliban. Mathen knew that the Battle Barge was the largest and most powerful vessel available to the Astartes, some of them had even sailed the stars when the Emperor still led mankind.

The _Dominion_ was not one of these, but she was still very old and formidable, and to Mathen her decorated corridors felt as if they had witnessed history. He couldn't even imagine how it might feel to walk someplace where the Emperor had walked.

He stood before the tapestry and watched the warrior immortalized in the woven artwork. His black ceramite plate armor and midnight blue pauldrons seemed as if they were true polished metal, his white tabard and green cloak seemed to be flowing in the wind, to Mathen it almost seemed as if the man—no, the _Astartes_ were alive.

“Do you know who he was?” A deep voice asked, and Mathen spun around to see an Astartes in a white robe, marking him as a veteran of the Chapter. He had the dusky skin of a son of Krenim and he spoke the tongue but Mathen had learned that those things didn't actually mean that any given Astartes actually was from Krenim. The Redeemers of Caliban roamed the stars and took new warriors from many worlds.

This was not unique among Astartes Chapters of course, especially nomadic fleet based Chapters, which is what the majority of the Dark Angels' successor Chapters were.

Mathen tried not to stare in awe at the Astartes and forced himself to answer, “Th-this is Grand Master Driniel, the first Grand Master of the Chapter.”

“Yes.” The Astartes nodded, “but do you know who he was?”

Mathen frowned, “Um . . . he was originally from the Dark Angels, but was sent to the Redeemers of Caliban to instruct the Chapter in the ways of its progenitor Chapter and the traditions of its parent Legion.”

“Yes. But has anyone told you who he was?” The Astartes asked, and this time Mathen shrugged helplessly. The Astartes' smile didn't waver and he stood besides Mathen in admiration of the tapestry.

“He was once a mortal boy just as you are now. He once had a mortal name, just as you do. As successors of the Dark Angels we keep many of their traditions, including receiving a new name when we join the Legion as Battle Brothers. You know this, neophyte?” The Astartes asked, and Mathen nodded before realizing that standing side by side the giant likely couldn't see him nod.

“Yes, my lord.” He answered.

The Space Marine clasped his massive hands behind his back, his arms were thicker than Mathen's waist, and he was tall even for an Astartes. At first, Mathen had thought all Astartes looked alike in physical structure and that the best way to tell them apart was their skin and eye color—assuming one could muster the courage to make eye contact that is—but after months he was starting to tell their individual features better and while they all seemed tall Mathen was becoming practiced enough to know that this warrior was tall even without one of his brothers standing beside him for context.

“When a Dark Angel earns his name within the Legion he abandons his old one. The child he once was dies and he is reborn a son of The Lion. For the First Chapter and many of our other brothers this is the way of things. However, Grand Master Driniel believed that to forget our old selves was to deny a part of what had made us worthy of being the Lion's sons in the first place.”

Mathen stared at the tapestry and nodded slowly, absorbing this new information as best he could. “Grand Master Driniel spoke with then Supreme Grand Master Raphael of the Dark Angels, and respectfully plead his case. You must understand, this would have been like a Prince making a request of a War Prince.”

“But wasn't Driniel the Grand Master of a Chapter? Aren't the Dark Angels only a Chapter as well?” Mathen asked.

The Astartes smiled an odd smile and said, “We respect our origins, and recall Driniel was of the Dark Angels. Even so, the Dark Angels are the First Chapter of the First Legion, the Supreme Grand Master can be considered . . .” he hesitated, perhaps looking for the right words, and his dark eyes lit up when he found them, “first among equals when he meets with his fellow Grand Masters. Though Driniel had been made the Grand Master of his own Chapter Supreme Grand Master Raphael had been his Grand Master for a century, had led a Chapter with a tradition that spanned back to the times of The Lion himself, and Driniel was daring to question that.”

“What happened?” Mathen asked, knowing what would have happened to anyone who questioned his father or their clan's traditions. It must have been different for Grand Master Driniel, after all, he had survived to pose for the tapestry.

“Well they discussed it for a long time. But in the end Master Raphael agreed albeit with some conditions. The boy who becomes an Astartes of the Redeemers is not dead, but he must still devote his entirety to being Astartes. Nevertheless the Astartes he becomes may always remember the boy he once was if it helps him in his duty. He may still keep to the old ways and forget as some of us still do, but the option and right existed to never forget. To keep his old name in his memory and remember what it was about himself that made him worthy of receiving a place with the sons of the Lion.”

Mathen felt a strange sort of increase to the admiration for the warrior in the tapestry now. He'd always admired the artwork and known Driniel to be a powerful warrior, a War Prince of War Princes even but now to know something more about the man elevated the whole piece to him.

“I want to be a son of the Lion.” Mathen confessed, “But I don't know how . . . I don't know what made me worthy, I only survived a battle at Aceldama.”

“And The Culling.” The Astartes reminded him. “Why did you do these things, boy?”

Mathen shrugged helplessly, “I did them because . . . because they were the things to do.”

“Did you hold back in the battle?” The Astartes asked him.

“No.” Mathen shook his head. “It was war: live or die, kill or be killed, conquer or be destroyed. I couldn't hold anything back, I had to fight with everything or I could have died, my brothers and my cousins could have died.”

The Astartes smiled as if Mathen had said something right, and then said, “My name is Xanthias, but the boy I once was was called Kargan of clan Korgan of Krenim III. We share a common home, child. I know the path you walk seems frustrating now, and it will never get easier. Many times the boy I once was stood where you stand, looking up at Master Driniel, wishing he would spring from the tapestry to give me some words of wisdom.”

Mathen looked at Xanthias in disbelief. An Astartes—or at least the boy he'd once been—had known doubt?

“I am Mathen, son of Vorlen.” Mathen said.

“Well met, Mathen, son of Vorlen.” Xanthias said.

“Well met Kargan, son of Korgan who is also Xanthias, son of the Lion.” Mathen returned the gesture and addressed the Astartes with both names just to be respectfully safe.

The robed Astartes smiled broadly and seemed to chuckle softly before saying, “Grand Master Driniel never did speak to me, so I will save you the trouble and offer you guidance on your path if you need it.”

“What do I do?” Mathen asked.

“What you did at the Aceldama: hold nothing back.” Xanthias told him. “The path of the Astartes must be your everything. As you said of Aceldama, that was war. To an Astartes there is only war. We are mankind's defenders, we can never hold back. If we do, our brothers and our cousins may die. All of humanity may die. We are the shield that defends humanity, and the hammer that crushes its foes. Neither of these things can be made of weak material, but it's not just the body of an Astartes that you will need to defend mankind, it is the spirit of an Astartes as well.”

Mathen frowned, he felt like he understood what he was being told. “But when I have to fight my brothers or my cousins in the combat training . . .”

“Hold nothing back. Fight as if your life depends on it, fight as if theirs does because someday it might.” Xanthias told him.

“But what if I hurt them?” Mathen asked.

“You've done that before, haven't you? Isn't that what brothers do, or has Krenim changed so much?” Xanthias asked.

“What if I _really_ hurt them? What if I hurt them so badly they can't recover?” He asked, almost afraid to admit to the concerns. “What if I kill them?” Mathen asked.

It was rare but he had seen boys die in the training. He didn't want that for Darken, or Kayren or any of his clan.

Xanthias smiled at him and said, “If you fight as if you mean to kill them they will fight as if they mean to live. Believe in them, test them at all times and test yourself. Never doubt, never falter, as an Astartes you won't just be the defender of mankind you will be the defender of your brothers. All of them, every Battle Brother who stands shoulder to shoulder with you on the field even as I stand beside you now.”

Mathen nodded slowly, feeling resolve flow through him. “I will.” He told Xanthias.

The Astartes smiled and said, “Then I will leave you to your mediations. Earn your name, son of Vorlen, then tell it to me when we can meet again as brothers.”

Mathen watched the tapestry for a while longer. The Astartes had taught him not to believe the silly superstitions of ancestral ghosts, he understood that Grand Master Driniel was dead and gone forever, all that remained were legends and tapestries like this one.

Still the idea of the man gave him as much courage as the old legends of the ancestors back in the warrior lodges had. He had been brave enough to learn to hunt, he could be brave enough to accept the truth of his role.

A klaxon sounded through the halls, marking the end of meditation and Mathen hurried to the sparring ring hungrier than ever to prove himself.

The sparring circles were set in a large room used by the Chapter Serfs to train in close combat, to use the sparring cages of the Astartes would have been suicidal not to mention impractical since everything would be over-sized.

So the array of swords, knives, axes, clubs and staffs on the walls was nothing compared to what Mathen imagined the Astartes would have and he knew he would need to master every one of them before he would be able to move up.

There were five numbered circles where sparring matches would be held, each observed by a servitor that would keep track of hits scored and report winners, and medically trained Chapter Serfs as well. Five pairs would spar while the others would watch and wait their turn to take the place of one of the defeated, from the center of room the instructor would stand and watch all the fights at once, shouting advice and criticism and dictating who should enter which ring next.

Voljen had pale skin and short white hair, though she did not seem old. She had a deep scar that ran across her face from cheek to cheek and clefted her nose slightly. She had been a warrior of a world that had seemed doomed until the Redeemers had fought to protect it. To hear her tell the tale her squad had been surrounded by Xenos and cut off from the main regiment. In the press of close quarters she had been using her combat blade in one hand and her bayonet in the other as her comrades of the Planetary Defense Force fell around her.

She had claimed over two dozen Xenos lives, her blades finding the weak points in their armor far better than her lasgun had when suddenly the black armored Redeemers had charged into the fray, their chain swords screaming their bolt pistols cracking like thunder. They had beat back the foul Xenos menace, rescuing her, the last soldier standing.

She'd pledged herself to their service after that and before too long had become the chapter's most trusted human instructor in matters of hand to hand combat. Still she said, “The Astartes terrified me when they saved my life, if you want to become Astartes you boys need to at least give me a chill!” and so far none of them had.

Voljen seemed to take special notice of him when he arrived at the sparring circles and before even bothering to wait for all of their class to arrive she shouted, “Mathen, Darken, take to ring one!”

The instructor was not even going to let them work their way through other opponents today, she was making no secret she intended to see their stalemate ended and Mathen agreed with her.

Darken groaned and complained so that only Mathen could hear him, “She'll be pitting us against each other forever. We're just going to tie again.”

“No,” Mathen assured him, “Not if we want to be Astartes.”

“I'm not going to let you win if that's what you're suggesting.” Darken said with a grin.

Mathen smiled back and told him, “You'd probably walk the path of the Serf if you did. I want to become an Astartes, and I want you to stand at my shoulder when I do.”

Darken shrugged, “We're of the same mind but unfortunately we're also of the same skill.”

“Then let determination be the deciding factor.” Mathen said. “I want to win more than you do.”

“You think so?” Darken smirked.

“Let's find out.” Mathen suggested, and they heard Voljen's shout to begin.

The two brothers threw themselves into the fight, though Darken started out looking to score points by landing blows Mathen knew there was one way he could defeat his opponent.

It was true that he and Darken were even in skill but a warrior didn't always need to kill their enemy to win a battle and it wouldn't matter how many points Darken scored, there was one sure way to win.

Darken charged and Mathen crouched, his brother raised his hands, probably expecting to pound Mathen into the ground but as he came near Mathen fell backwards and kicked out with his feet, catching Darken in the chest.

It was a solid hit that knocked the wind out of his brother, Mathen let Darken's own momentum take them backwards, he kicked out and sent his brother out of the circle to land in a heap, gasping for air and clutching his chest.

Mathen came to his feet and Voljen cast a jaundiced eye in their direction. Some observers and another Chapter Serf that Mathen didn't know by name started towards Darken but he rose to his feet holding his chest and coughing.

He gave Mathen a jaundiced look that actually put Voljen to shame, and scowled, “Well . . . I won't let you do that again.”

Mathen wanted to apologize but forced himself to give his brother a smirk that would make sure Darken never forgot that promise.

Mathen might have humiliated him a bit, and he'd probably broken a rib or two but he knew Darken would win his way through other fights and redeem his pride. With any luck he'd be more ruthless and hold less back in the future.

Mathen fully expected to have a few of his ribs broken the next time they were in the circle together.

And that would be fine. It would make them both better fighters.

It had to because Mathen could see they had a long way to go.

“Kycho, take to ring one!” Voljen shouted, arms clasped behind her back and no chills evident.

 


	5. The Way of the Astartes

**Part V**

**The Way of the Astartes**

 

In the ensuing years Mathen learned a great deal more. Not just about the Redeemers of Caliban, the Lion or the Dark Angels but about the Imperium of Man as a whole. He had even been through his first battle . . . or at least the _Dominion_ had been, Mathen and most of the other Neophytes hadn't even realized what was happening until it was over, though he had noticed tension in the air during that day's training.

But something as minor as a battle between the space-bound fortresses that were Imperial war ships had been no reason for the Serfs of the Redeemers of Caliban to halt the instruction of their neophytes, it was as if the Astartes' victory had been a forgone conclusion to them, which Mathen supposed only made sense.

Mathen had learned a great deal about the Adeptas Astartes and their role in that Imperium, though the Redeemers of Caliban kept many things vague and seemed to enjoy being illusive, especially if it involved the time before the Legion was split.

Though Mathen had thought in more rebellious moments that perhaps they themselves lacked all the answers.

Despite all the unanswered questions and potential secrets he learned a great deal. He still learned from the Chapter Serfs but as he progressed in skill and as their class grew smaller they found themselves learning from some who had become Astartes.

Once they had fully mastered Gothic they had joined the other neophytes from other worlds for more than just training, and they began to learn more about the worlds that the Redeemers visited for recruits. Some were frozen feral worlds like Krenim, others were worlds of extreme habitats, things called hive worlds, or even fully compliant Imperial worlds, though clearly the harder the world the more success the Redeemers had finding worthy recruits.

They were all boys about their age. Age, Dagon had told them, played a vital role in becoming an Astartes. The older the neophyte the shorter the time he had to undergo the changes that would turn him from a mere mortal into an Angel of Death.

Though the younger the neophyte the harder the training would be on them, and at least to Mathen the training was extremely hard, and it never seemed to get easier.

He understood the necessity and he was sanguine about it, they all were. Initiates needed to be singularly strong, Dagon had told them one day. Able to work together, but capable in their own right as well.

They made friends and allies with boys from other worlds, they learned as much as they could from the Chapter Serfs, and they saw many youths pulled from the number of neophytes to follow the path of the Serf.

But none of the sons of Vorlen. Even though they couldn't always stand together anymore Mathen still felt pride in the fact that none of his brothers or cousins failed in those early days.

It was Vorken who was chosen first, being the oldest his time to be tested was the shortest and his physical abilities were the most advanced.

The second to be chosen was Kayren, much to Mathen's surprise.

Not that he was not proud of Kayren for becoming an Initiate, but they had all thought that they would be chosen in order of age.

But Kayren had been chosen, and no one would argue the point. It had been during their close combat training, Mathen and Darken both won their fights against boys their age, but when Kayren stepped into the ring one of the Astartes, one wearing a blue robe which Mathen had learned marked him as a member of the Chapter's Librarius, had ordered the Chapter Serf in charge of the training to put Kayren against the oldest boy.

Mathen had never before seen his younger brother fight the way he did that day. Kayren's movements seemed impossibly fast and when he'd landed his finishing blow the punch had thrown the older boy an easy three meters.

The blue robed Astartes had said that that was all he'd needed to see, and Kayren was taken away. At first they'd all thought he'd done something wrong, but Dagon told them later that Kayren had become an initiate and the next time Mathen had seen him his younger brother had been dressed in the clothes and armor to prove it.

He'd been jealous then. So had Darken, Tyrgen and all the rest of the neophytes but in the end Mathen told himself he wouldn't be left behind for long.

As they advanced as neophytes they began training in more extreme conditions, sometimes even on the surfaces of planets. It had been a revelation to Mathen to hear of and read about worlds totally unlike Krenim and then to actually begin visiting them and standing on them, breathing their strange air and seeing their strange skies.

There would be off-world training that day as well. It was held on a jungle world, lush and green and humid. It was not the first time Mathen had set foot off of the _Unrivaled_ _Dominion_ but somehow it still felt odd being on an alien world.

And it made him curious to know that he was only seeing a small portion of its forests. He wondered what the people of this world were like, were they like the people he'd known back home? Did they knowingly serve the Emperor or were they a feral world like Krenim?

The Redeemers of Caliban rarely interacted with locals, or at least the neophytes rarely interacted with locals. Mathen assumed that if there were human inhabitants on the planet the Astartes would be far more likely to see them and meet them than the neophytes.

Or perhaps they'd be illusive figures of near myth as they were on Krenim.

Mathen also took time to wonder if the forests of Caliban had been at all like these green and brown woods. If so he could more easily imagine them being a place the Dark Angels and their successors would mourn the loss of: this place was very pleasant and beautiful, Mathen thought.

Not that he had time to worry about that during his training.

Temelechus and another Astartes named Armael would be there to watch them that day. The neophytes chosen for the test that day had been split into two groups and given a banner to protect and an opportunity to build themselves a base in the woods.

They were told to take the banner from the other group while protecting their own. Their two teams of twenty had split into attackers and defenders and Mathen and Darken had been attackers. They had tracked and located the other team's base using tricks they'd been taught by Chapter Serfs, though it was entirely different to put them into practice on an alien planet.

When they found it they signaled each other with bird sounds that they knew wouldn't fool the other neophytes and gathered together ready for the attack.

The other team's camp was in a clearing in the trees. The banner was tied to a stick planted in the ground surrounded by the other team and . . . an unexpected defender.

Mathen and his team had expected to find ten or more other boys to fight and take the banner from, but what they hadn't expected was to find that banner protected by Temelechus.

The two Astartes had each picked a team to defend with. He'd learn later that Armael was guarding the banner that Mathen's team were supposed to defend.

Temelechus hadn't interfered while his banner's team still had defenders but when Mathen and Darken along with just a few others not too injured to continue had fought through the other team's defenders to reach the banner he'd made it plain that they wouldn't be free to take it.

“If by some stroke of luck you get your hands on this banner,” He told them, “I will not pursue you if you can reach the trees. Reach the trees with the banner and you are safe from me.”

They knew that they stood no chance against an Astartes. Even outside of his armor and dressed only in a black jumpsuit and brown leather boots he cut an intimidating figure towering over all of them.

But the test had been to take the banner, and the two sons of Vorlen knew that success in that was what mattered. Mathen and Darken had fought hard to distinguish themselves individually over the past months, but they still knew each other well enough that no words were needed, they knew what they had to do.

They had fought and won against older brothers and cousins before. While even their toughest older brother was to an Astartes as a snow tick was to a scythe talon the same basic attack would suffice for the purposes of the test.

“Kycho, Gorge,” Mathen said, knowing the two of them to be the fastest runners left, “Stand back and wait for the right moment.”

“Right moment?” Gorge demanded, but Kycho had understood better and nodded once while giving Mathen a rueful look.

Evidently he didn't envy Mathen's role in things, and Mathen supposed that Kycho's would be safer all things considered.

Mathen nodded to Darken who nodded to two other boys from Krenim. They weren't sons of Vorlen, but they would speak the tongue of Krenim and that was what they needed.

Mathen knew Temelechus could understand the tongue of Krenim, he'd heard him speak it after all but that had been at least a year ago and he hoped the time it would take the Astartes to translate the hushed conversation would buy them the seconds they'd need for their plan to work. He spoke as quietly as he could, the Astartes made no attempt to attack or prevent them from huddling to discuss their plans, simply standing and watching them, waiting patiently.

He was totally and completely unconcerned.

The other boy still standing was a tall pale skinned youth with his copper colored hair cut into a warrior stripe whose name Mathen had never learned. The boy swallowed a lump in his throat and asked, “We're taking him?”

“Doubtful.” Mathen admitted. “Just hit as hard as you can. Strike where I strike.”

The boy nodded and then the attack was on.

It wasn't masterful strategy really, just a desperate attempt. They were just children attacking a demigod.

Mathen was doubtful that Temelechus had any intentions of killing them, but he did not believe for an instant that the Astartes would abstain from doing them damage.

Mathen had learned from a young age how to shake off pain, and he'd had to learn those lessons even better as a neophyte but none of that meant he didn't still dislike being hurt.

Darken seizing a sizable rock he and Mathen had charged in, the two other boys of Krenim rushed on ahead of them.

The knew their roles and like a pack of Scythe Claws attacking larger prey the boys charged and split up without a word, everyone kept one eye on the member of the pack he needed to be watching and the other on the prey, though that word was so ill-suited to the Astartes.

The two front-runners threw themselves at Temelechus' arms, he held the banner back to prevent them getting at it and blocked them both with one massive forearm.

Even out of his armor the Astartes was head and shoulders above the tallest warrior of Krenim and twice as wide. They were giants of solid muscle and against them even the burliest boy seemed emaciated.

He easily swept the two boys of Krenim to either side of himself with a quick sweep of his arm, and raised his right leg when Darken made a dive to knock him off his feet.

He kicked backwards, connecting with Darken's backside and sending him face forward into the dirt, though he managed to brace his fall with his hands, falling to his knees instead of his face.

The two other boys of Krenim landed well too, hitting the dirt on either side of the Astartes warrior just as Mathen had hoped they would.

Though he, Darken and the rest of them were all big and strong for their age Mathen was still tiny compared to Temelechus. He had no chance of scoring a punch to the giant's face but there was one place that he was willing to bet even an Astartes remained vulnerable.

He kicked for Temelechus' goin with all the strength he could muster, and Temelechus dodged out of the way and raised his own left foot, connecting with the back of Mathen's knee and propelling him into the air what felt like a meter, though he'd later learn it was far less.

The other boy tried to kick for Temelechus' groin as well, though his thigh was blocking the strike, everything was happening too quickly for the mortal boys to adjust their tactics, the taller boy had already recognized the tactic and been launching his kick when the Astartes had dealt with Mathen.

In the same movement that had brought his leg up to take Mathen off his feet Temelechus brought his leg down on the other boy's leg tripping him and sending him tumbling face forward. Mathen felt a measure of awe realizing that the giant was using just a fraction of his strength against them.

If he'd wanted to he probably could have kicked their limbs clear of their bodies, but he had instead simply deflected and tripped them in a rapid and even graceful motion.

But even as he sent the tall boy tumbling the two other Krenim boys who'd landed on either side of Temelechus suddenly rolled to their feet and with almost perfect coordination tackled his left leg in an attempt to topple him before he could bring his left down.

They failed. He barely budged, his right leg was already firmly footed even though he'd used it to shove Darken away barely a second ago.

There was a tearing sound and Mathen rolled to his feet the instant he felt the earth strike his back. He rose and saw that Temelechus' banner pole was barren.

Though Temelechus had only shifted a minuscule amount when his leg was shoved it had been just enough, the banner had dipped low enough for Darken to make the highest and most important jump of his life.

The banner had come free of its pole and in a quick motion as Temelechus had spun to retrieve it from him Darken had hit the ground from his jump, rolled and wrapped the banner in the stone he'd picked up.

He came to his knees and tossed it as hard as he could to Gorge and Kycho.

Kycho caught it, and the two of them broke away into a run for their own side's base.

Mathen knew now they had to stop Temelechus from pursuing their teammates for as long as possible.

To some boys every second might have felt like a victory but to Mathen nothing would be victory except victory. He wouldn't become an Astartes just by trying very hard, he needed to _win_.

With a fury born of desperation knowing that they would only slow the demigod from his pursuit instead of outright prevent it the five boys threw themselves into the fight, punching kicking and even head-butting trying to bring the giant down.

Mathen counted in his head as the Astartes began to retaliate.

_One,_ he thought, as Darken and one of the other boys from Krenim were both flung backwards two or three meters apiece. Now that the banner pole was unimportant Temelechus was free to use both hands to deal with them, a thing Mathen hadn't quite considered.

_Two_ as the tall boy was kicked away, rolling at high speed, he might have gone straight into the trees if the unconscious form of one of the defending team's initiates hadn't stopped him. Such as it was the sound the two boys made when they struck each other made Mathen wince.

_Three_ when Temelechus, freed enough from the tangle of assailants that he could begin to move forward took his first step, kicking the other boy aside as he did. Mathen seized one of the giant's arms, and kicked viciously for the back of the Astartes' knee.

_Four!_ He shouted in his own mind as Temelechus swept his arm out to shake him off.

Darken jumped back in then, wrapping his arms as far around the Astartes' waist as he could, and Mathen struggled to keep his grip.

_Five, six, seven_ , Mathen thought as the other boys of Krenim returned to the fray, trying to use their own bodies to slow the Astartes' charge.

Mathen felt Temelechus grab his tunic and in a moment of realization so startling that he lost his mental count he felt himself being _swung_ towards his brother like a human club. He shouted more in surprise than fear.

Then suddenly before he could smash into Darken Temelechus stopped.

He released Mathen and stood up straight, the three other boys still punching and kicking him, though he showed no signs that he could even feel the blows.

He stood like a statue and said, “Cease, the test is over.”

The two boys of Krenim that Mathen didn't know stood down but Mathen and Darken fought on.

And were rewarded for the act by being grabbed by the scruff of their tunics and raised to Temelechus' eye level.

Mathen could see the giant's stone gray eyes, eyes that were older than they seemed and had seen so many battles, so much loss, so much death and destruction.

And for the briefest, merest of moments Mathen thought he saw those eyes smile.

Then he saw nothing, the world went black when Temelechus had brought his arms together and knocked Mathen and Darken's heads into each other, and left both boys senseless on the ground.

When Mathen came to it had been in what they called a Medicae Bay. A gray haired Chapter Serf was tending to his injuries, but ignored his attempts to ask for details of the training maneuver. Instead the aged man had pressed a button on a wall console and in an instant the white armored Astartes he'd come to know as Apothecary Ambriel entered the room.

“He's awake, Lord.” The Serf and said, and Ambriel laughed.

“Yes, I can see.” The Astartes said with a smile.

“What happened, Lord? I mean in the training exercise.” Mathen implored.

Ambriel's smile faltered a bit and he spoke gravely. “Your team failed to capture the flag, once he'd dealt with you the Astartes you faced pursued and captured the two boys fleeing with it. They didn't even make it half way back to your team's base.”

“We failed . . .” Mathen realized, lowering his gaze in disappointment. He should have known, and deep down he recognized that he had suspected.

“Yes.” Ambriel told him, looking at a medical readout. “Do you remember how you came to be injured?”

“I . . . was injured by Lord Temelechus?” Mathen guessed more than anything, his memory hadn't come back completely crisp at that time.

“Fighting on after he'd told you to stand down.” Ambriel nodded. “Did you not hear the order?”

Mathen shrugged, “I did . . .” He admitted, fear gripping his chest.

“You chose to ignore it?” Ambriel asked without looking up from the readout.

“Well . . .” Mathen swallowed a lump in his throat, wondering what sort of punishment awaited him.

“Do you remember why?” Ambriel asked.

Mathen took a deep breath, and then, feeling the need to justify himself blurted, “He was my enemy!”

“Go on.” Ambriel said evenly.

“The test master said nothing of Temelechus' presence, he never told us that we wouldn't be pursued past the tree line. We only had Temelechus' word for that and he was the enemy in that test, his word meant nothing . . .” Mathen was saying then trailed off, realizing suddenly that he'd been right.

Temelechus had taken the banner back after Kycho and Gorge had already made it past the tree line.

Mathen felt a slight measure of vindication. He'd seen past the ruse, and that made his loss sting just a bit less.

Ambriel looked up from the readout and down at Mathen and smiled, “Just so. An enemy's word is utterly worthless on the battlefield, young one. Even if he looks like a trusted brother.”

Mathen took a moment to absorb what he was being told, then ventured a tentative, “So . . . I was right?”

“Don't doubt it now,” Ambriel said with a chuckle.

Then he became serious and his tone became quieter. “I understand you took command out there, you know you could do well as a Chapter Serf. It's not often, but sometimes they are needed to take up arms and fight alongside us Astartes. They can always use good officers.”

Mathen shook his head automatically in a mixture of refusal and denial, “Are you saying . . . I've failed? Are you telling me I'm going to be a serf?”

“Not at all. I'm giving you the option. You've seen today that even trying your best sometimes the tests are insurmountable. It's not too late to step down. A mortal life is no worthless thing and yours shows promise.” Ambriel said soothingly.

Mathen shook his head. “No. I don't want to give up. Even if I failed today I'll keep trying.”

“The path you hope to walk doesn't always allow for second chances. As an Initiate you could die half-finished on an alien world far from your home never knowing the honor of even being a full Astartes, never earning your name or a place in the Chapter's ranks.”

Mathen thought for a moment, then said, “I would rather die that way than give up.”

“Even if your death were meaningless?” Ambriel asked.

“No death is meaningless if it's found in the service of the Emperor.” Mathen said, hoping he sounded profound but Ambriel didn't seem impressed.

The Apothecary nodded. “No backwards steps, that's the way of the Astartes. Very well. This is your very last chance, Mathen. Are you prepared to give up the life of a mortal? To never know a wife or offspring, to give up any chance of a life of peace? If you have any doubt within your heart I must urge you to stand down.”

Mathen's gaze didn't waver as he met the Apothecary's eyes. “Do you want to accept the path of the Chapter Serf? You will _never_ be asked again.” Ambriel told him.

Mathen didn't hesitate, even as the gravity of what he was being told sank in to his mind he answered, “I will never need to be asked again. I do not want to be a serf. I want to serve the Emperor and the Lion as an Astartes even if it costs me my life, even if I die . . . half-finished.”

Ambriel nodded. “Then I suppose we'd better begin.” He said, and suddenly the medicae came to life as if the room itself were sentient and had responded to the Apothecary's words. “Mathen of Krenim III, you have been judged worthy of elevation to the rank of Initiate by brother-sergeant Temelechus, brother-sergeant Armael, and myself.”

Ambriel smiled apologetically and said, “You'd better prepare yourself, lad. It's going to hurt.”

 

 

When Mathen woke up it was in a white recovery room.

It was lined with medical equipment and ten beds along each wall, though only three others were occupied at the moment. Besides Mathen's bed was a small table, and there was a black jumpsuit and leather boots waiting for him. Darken, Kycho, and another boy Mathen recognized from the other team named Burrad had been chosen too.

Mathen smiled at his brother through the pain in his chest, pain that defied medication. Neither of them said anything, they didn't need words. They were both pleased to see the other had been chosen and their competition would only intensify.

They would become full Astartes, they would be Shadows of Death.

 

 


	6. Crisis at Han Dolt

**Part VI  
**

**Crisis at Han Dolt**

 

The hive world of Han Dolt was a crowded noisy place. The population lived underground to avoid the harsh surface, but this hadn't prevented them from becoming a harsh people. With a violent death rate that had exceeded the birth and immigration rates combined so effectively that Hand Dolt's population had been declining steadily for the past century the surprising thing about Han Dolt was not that a cult dedicated to the ruinous powers had risen up, it was that it had taken so long for the Imperium to become aware of it.

That and despite the fact that the violent crime rates had cut the planet's population roughly in half over the past century the streets of Han Dolt's capital were still crowded congested places. Not that Colonel Shaw could blame the loyal population for fleeing from the more sparsely populated lower hive where the cults had total dominion.

The planetary governor, or former planetary governor as they had suffered a tragic accidental bolt pistol round to the head, had failed to call for assistance when more than two thirds of the Planetary Defense Force suddenly took up arms against their comrades. Only the renegades' desire to fight in close quarters rather than firing their lasguns like civilized soldiers had given the outnumbered PDF any chance and it was only when he was running out of men that the Governor had finally done his duty and called for aid, which had been so quick in coming that most people, including Shaw, believed that they'd been en route anyway.

That hinted that the Inquisition had been involved and that an Inquisitor had already been on-site. Command had ordered ten Regiments to Han Dolt to put down these cults and reinforce what was left of the PDF, which hadn't been much.

All the same it initially seemed like overkill but Rebecka Shaw, a Major at the time, had quickly found that her regiment's numbers meant little in the confined corners of the hive world's streets and fanatical cultists thought nothing of throwing themselves against a numerically superior foe. Still it hadn't seemed so bad at first, as with the PDF the regiment's willingness to use their rifles at long range rather than as clubs had helped, but even the fanatical followers of the ruinous powers had gotten lucky sometimes and more than a few squads were lost to surprisingly well laid ambushes.

Still no one had been overly concerned. Most of them had fought Chaos cults before or put down planetary resistances and it even seemed as if the cultists were sloppy. Every ritual site or worship center they found led them to two or even three more. It had taken them two months to realize that the cultists were spreading them out intentionally and by then it was too late. Entire companies were lost in a single day of harsh fighting and the 942nd had lost Colonel Lamprey, resulting in Shaw's own field promotion.

If they weren't dealing with cultists and renegades Shaw would have thought that the enemy had planned a devastating counter attack that cut most of the regiments facing them down by thirty percent or more, but High Command assured her that, against her instincts, it was just a matter of luck on the enemy's part. They'd grown complacent, they'd gotten sloppy, and they'd paid for it in blood. It would be her job as the new Colonel of the nine-forty-second to make sure her girls didn't make that same mistake.

Still for an enemy that relied on random chance that hadn't stopped Command from _acting_ like they were suddenly on the defensive. Of the ten regiments fully six were now committed to Han Dolt's capital and its star port, with the other four spread out through the two other major city complexes. The lower hives connected all three so the enemy could strike anywhere in force if they had the organization, which they didn't. But they had enough of it to turn back every single attempt to gain ground, in some instances the Guard had even lost ground.

So it had come as no surprise when word came down the chain that Astartes assistance had been requested. What _had_ come as a surprise was that not only a company of the nearby Solar Hawks chapter had arrived, an unexpected company from the Redeemers of Caliban had also volunteered their services.

Shaw didn't really know one Chapter from another, she knew the really iconic Chapters of the sector, and everyone knew the Ultramarines of course. She'd heard some of the other officers mention that the Redeemers were a Chapter descended from the Dark Angels and the Solar Hawks were descended from the White Scars. She had never really bothered with ancient history, but being descended from different Chapters must have been significant because where by all accounts the Solar Hawks' arrival was met with grateful cheers the Redeemers' arrival had carried an air of uncertainty and mistrust.

As rumor had it the Dark Angels and their successors were somewhat . . . unreliable. Shaw had heard the women under her command whispering about a time that the Dark Angels had abandoned a world to be overrun by Xenos, another said it was their successors the Guardians of the Covenant that had done that, another rumor said they had destroyed a loyal world simply because the Governor had failed to call their Chapter Master “Lord” and while Shaw silenced such scuttlebutt she had made a mental note never to forget her graces with a Space Marine.

According to the other Command officers the two Chapters didn't seem to be working together or even able to agree on much except that the “mortals” should stay out of their way. How some two hundred Space Marines intended to purge a world that a hundred thousand Guardsmen couldn't the Colonel didn't know. They should have been grateful for her assistance, they should be eager to put every available lasgun to good use.

Shaw and what was left of her regiment were relegated to guard duty, which ate at her pride both as an officer and a soldier. She'd signed on to do a rough job and after months of struggle on Han Dolt she'd basically been told that she wasn't good enough to finish it. Not only did it deny her an opportunity to prove her capability to both herself and her regiment as their new Colonel, it denied her the opportunity to get even with the fanatics for inadvertently getting her the job in the first place.

That was why she'd come herself, she wanted to get a look at one of these Space Marines if she could. In her thirty three years of life she'd never seen one, never served with one of these fabled demigods. It seemed almost impossible to her, but the Emperor's Astartes seemed to be living up to the hype, and she knew if she were to fill the role of Colonel effectively she'd need to do a lot more studying. By all reports the two Chapters were wiping out den after den of traitors, some of the other Colonels were saying that Command was already looking at what worlds might need assistance next.

The question of how so few could accomplish so much vexed Shaw and even managed to anger her a bit. Who were these men—if they truly were human at all—to stand by and watch while loyal soldiers gave their lives for the Imperium? If they were so powerful why hadn't they been with the Guard on Han Dolt from the start? Why did it take borderline catastrophe before the situation was worthy of their attention?

The women under her command had aired similar grievances, and Shaw had no idea what to tell them. She thought that maybe if she could just see one she'd somehow _know_. She'd somehow understand.

Since their initial arrival the Space Marines hadn't emerged from the lower hive, apart from the troopers and civilians that had seen them go down no one living had laid eyes on them. But Shaw had received word some time ago that a squad of Redeemers had emerged to retrieve more ammunition, and now Shaw intended to see for herself the men that had so brazenly cast aside the aid of tens of thousands of loyal Guardsmen to hunt the ruinous powers themselves.

But with the crowded streets she was half afraid she would miss them.

An unfounded fear it would turn out, the crowds parted for the squad of Space Marines as surely as they would have for a parade procession. Some even fell to their knees in reverence at the Emperor's chosen.

Shaw expected something grand, something life changing, and she supposed the experience was at that, but she remembered her first thought was just _they're so young._

A squad of sixteen or seventeen young boys of varying ages with large red boltguns slung over their shoulders marched down the street in black jumpsuits and matching Carapace Armor with blue shoulder pads. The Sergeants bringing up the front and the rear were the only true men, and what men they were.

Each was more than a head taller than any man Shaw had ever met and built to make even the most impressive Catachan seem frail. They looked like they could wrestle an Ogryn and win, their faces were chiseled perfection and there was just something about the way they moved that made Shaw feel like challenging them like she'd intended wouldn't be the best idea.

The lead Sergeant was blond with stony gray eyes, the other had probably had a shaved head before arriving at Han Dolt, but after weeks of fighting his dark brown hair was growing back in.

Still the Colonel couldn't get over the fact that most of them were just children. _These are the Emperor's finest?_ She wondered. The older boys seemed to at least be better built than most adult men, but their youth remained evident in their faces. She almost hated to let them pass her checkpoint, it seemed wrong to send these boys into the streets of the lower hive.

_It's like some kind of twisted scouting trip._ Shaw thought to herself.

“Greetings, Colonel.” The lead Sergeant called to her and Shaw snapped off a quick salute from the turret of her Salamander command APC. The giant was looking at her with those gray eyes of his, and for a half-second that felt like a lifetime she wondered if she'd made some sort of mistake saluting him. After all, he was just a sergeant.

But he was also a Space Marine, and she knew she had to call him Lord as if he were some kind of nobility, so surely that counted for something.

“Greetings, my Lord. Rested and resupplied?” Shaw asked, powering through the embarrassment.

“We are. Has anything unusual occurred?” He asked, meeting her gaze without any sign that he'd noticed any mistake, assuming she _had_ made one.

“No, Lord.” Shaw reported. “Other than how unusually quiet it's been. No messages for you from your comrades either, the vox has been completely silent.”

“Thank you Colonel, that's the way we like it.” The Sergeant told her.

Shaw nodded, then dared to ask, “My Lord, how are you faring down there? The heretics managed to cost us thousands of lives, but there are barely more than two hundred of you between yourselves and the Solar Hawks. You haven't reported any casualties.”

“To my knowledge we haven't suffered any.” The Sergeant told her simply.

“You must have softened them up for us.” The second Sergeant said from the rear, and Shaw got the distinct impression that he was patronizing her.

“Power armor counts for a lot, besides we're only exterminating the fools down there.” The first Sergeant told her, his tone more sincere, “The truly clever ones will be up here already and laying low. Do not grow complacent.”

“I will remember that, Lord.” Shaw promised. “However . . .” She hesitated, but only for a moment before deciding that as a Colonel she couldn't afford to appear indecisive. Besides, if mere children were being sent down into that nightmare she couldn't keep quiet. She stood even straighter and said, “If it's just extermination I have just over two thousand rested soldiers who've learned those streets well.”

“I'm sure they have, but we have the situation well under control.” The sergeant told her.

“Don't give me that,” Shaw scoffed just the way she used to scoff at Colonel Lamprey—in private of course—when she tried to give her the run around. “We bled for this world, lost sisters in those streets. I've seen these maniacs in action, everything they do is random. You can't predict them. You told me not to grow complacent but how complacent are you if you think two hundred men can do what one hundred thousand couldn't?”

The Sergeant smiled, it was a calm, pleasant, almost reassuring smile. He somehow managed to say “We are not men, we are Astartes,” without sounding condescending.

His companion, the other fully grown Space Marine made no attempt to hide his condescension though when he said, “We are the Emperor's chosen and when we are unleashed mortal men cannot stand against us. If you were down there you would only get in our way, we wouldn't be free to be . . . shall we just say, unrestrained.”

“We only want to help, my Lord.” She told him.

“You _have_ helped.” The first Sergeant told her in a reassuring tone, “But it truly is not my decision. I am only a Sergeant.”

“And which Sergeant would that be?” Shaw asked, calming down a bit, “You're the first Space Marine I've ever met, I'd like to know your name.”

_If you have one . . . do they have names?_ She wondered suddenly, slightly worried that she might seem foolish in front of her troops.

But the Sergeant smiled and said, “My name is Temelechus. This is Armael.”

“Colonel Rebecka Shaw. Good hunting, Sergeants.”

“The Emperor Protects.” Temelechus bowed slightly. When he rose he raised his hand and made a “move out” gesture not too dissimilar to the one Shaw had used when she was a Sergeant, he and his squad set off past the barricades at a surprisingly fast sprint. Armael and his group followed after them, but not before the second Astartes shot Shaw a quick salute. Surprised, the new Colonel returned the gesture, as did her Lieutenants.

Temelechus and Armael. Shaw would remember those names.

 

Kycho was on point, bolter raised in the firing position as his sharp eyes scanned the abandoned streets for any signs of movement.

Mathen did the same, his Occulobe implants were still new to him, but in the near complete darkness of the lower city they were proving invaluable. One of the first things Master Luthias of the Fourth Company had done was order the company's Techmarines, Bezalel and Xael to start disabling the lighting. It was no difficulty for the Astartes to fight in the dark, but the mortal men and women serving these sick ruinous cults were not so lucky. Mathen was gaining quick practice seeing in the dark and he knew those skills would serve him well on his quest to earn his name.

The traitors they hunted were cultists of the blood god, one of the four primary ruinous powers Mathen had come to learn in his years as an initiate. Chaplain Ithamar said he was reluctant to teach mere children of 'the dark ruin that hungers for man' as he called it, but the Masters of the Chapter agreed that even the initiates needed to know of the enemy in order to fight it.

Knowing your enemy as well as yourself left a battle's outcome far easier to predict and influence. It was important to strategic thinking to understand the pieces in play and so while much of the Imperium saw the followers of the ruinous powers as one mass of irrational beings the sons of the Lion knew their different faces.

Khornate cults were violent and bloodthirsty. They might lure brave warriors in with talk of honor and martial prowess and especially to the Astartes such things could be tempting but they were lies. Khorne was violent death, might didn't just make right might meant survival. They believed that all death in battle served their master, including their own so civilians and noncombatants were never spared and the cultists themselves would fight to the last with fanatical fervor. These cultists had proven to be no different.

As the young initiate understood it Han Dolt's cults had risen up through the city's ganger culture as the deeper one got the poorer the inhabitants and the less likely they were to report to their assigned work stations assuming the bureaucracy was on top of its game enough to sufficiently assign work to its population.

These circumstances, Mathen had learned, could lead to an overuse of intoxicants and narcotics, baser physical acts all of which could result in a Slaaneshi cult rising up, and this was more common. However in the case of Han Dolt the recreational narcotic use was more prevalent in the higher levels of the hive, the spice gangers of the lower hive fought for glory and honor, or so they claimed. They fought to take from one another that which had no value, they fought to hurt, to kill, eventually they fought just to fight.

Perhaps somewhere along the line someone, likely an outsider or newcomer would have said those magical words: Blood for the blood god. But even if none of them knew the name this was a Khornate cult. These cultists were violent and without compassion, all sense of community and humanity lost in the blood crazed frenzy. They cared nothing for honor or their own survival both killing and being killed without hesitation.

That didn't mean they were particularly good at it.

In truth the Solar Hawks would have been able to clear the lower hive themselves in a few weeks, and with how irritable Master Luthias was over the number of Inquisitors in Han Dolt it seemed to Mathen as if the Master of the Fourth Company had come to Han Dolt simply because Master Nicodemus had recommended it.

Only Nicodemus and his Librarians seemed to be just as agitated as Master Luthias. All of the full Astartes seemed on edge.

_Perhaps it is the Solar Hawks?_ Mathen wondered at first, supposing that the presence of a cousin Chapter had the battle brothers working all the harder.

Perhaps it was the fact that the Khan of the Solar Hawks Battle Company—their equivalent of a Company Master—had been disappointed to learn that he would not have the honor of 'riding' with the Redeemers' second company. Apparently the Ravenwing's reputation carried over even to successor Chapters and the Captain had wanted to test his riders against the skill of the Redeemers' Darkwing.

But the battle brothers of the Fourth Company didn't seem slighted at first, it was only the Librarians and the top sergeants who seemed agitated over the situation. That frustration had since trickled down and everyone was working exceptionally hard to cleanse the Hive, even attacking some targets agreed to be left for the Solar Hawks.

Temelechus and Armael were on edge as well. Tenth Company support followed each of the Chapter's three Battle Companies, and Temelechus and Armael were treated as members of the Fourth's command staff, so Mathen supposed it made sense that his Sergeant and teacher was upset like the rest of them, though Temelechus hid it better than Armael.

But in all the years Mathen had been an initiate he'd never seen anything get under Temelechus' skin, not even serving with other Chapters, though that had only happened once before, and it had been the Guardians of the Covenant, a brother Chapter and not mere cousins.

He wondered what was different now.

They moved in silence through the pitch black, though the city itself was not completely quiet. There were odd noises and groans, the hum of machinery too vital for the Techmarines to disable, the occasional scuffling of moving feet.

In the distance they might hear the bolter discharge from one of the Tactical Squads. The Fourth had broken its six tactical squads into smaller five man combat squads each more than sufficient to clear a region of the city itself. The Techmarines were each traveling with one of the Devastator Squads and generally having a good time demolishing anything that needed demolishing and wasn't going to cause any sort of cave-in.

But the tenth company support hadn't just turned back because they needed more ammunition, they'd needed to retrieve a special piece of equipment for Master Nicodemus: a Teleport Homer.

Temelechus had been upset that they hadn't thought to bring it initially but it had been Armael to remind him that they hadn't believed it would be necessary. Mathen didn't know _why_ it was necessary now, but he understood the danger of their current mission.

Brother-Sergeant Temelechus had briefed them all when they were in the upper hive; this mission was going to be beyond dangerous, it fell just short of a suicide run.

They had located a concentrated enemy force, a well-outfitted band with equipment pilfered from the old Planetary Defense Force, most of them, Temelechus had said, were likely former members of the PDF. Professional soldiers bellow the Guardsmen of the Astra Militarum in terms of skill but still far above the armed rioters they'd been dealing with up to now.

The fact that this strong force had held back meant something significant was going on with them. Khornate cultists generally couldn't help themselves from going into battle, they never held their best in reserve. This meant something entirely different might be going on, a second cult might be present and using the Khornate cult as a distraction.

But whatever was going on inside it would be the job of Tenth Company, the Scouts, to sneak into the place, locate and plant charges to destroy the armory, the communications sanctum if one existed, and to find a good location to plant the Teleport Homer.

That, they'd been told, would take care of the rest.

Master Nicodemus had apparently ordered Temelechus and Armael to leave behind any Initiates who hadn't progressed most of the way to full Astartes, the other reason they'd had to go back to the upper hive.

So it was that they had left behind the Initiates too underdeveloped for the mission, traded their sniper rifles for boltguns, retrieved the Teleport Homer and some extra charges before setting off for what would likely be their final mission.

They were of course prepared for it. They understood their duty, though each of them would prefer to survive to become full Astartes they knew that their lives had ceased to be their own when they first became Initiates. Mathen remembered what Apothecary Ambriel had said to him that day years ago, that he might die half finished on some unknown world.

It set a chill up his spine to think that might be the case after all. He had hoped to survive and earn his name, had wanted to be the first of the sons of Vorlen to earn his name even though he knew that Vorken was further advanced than he was and more likely to be the first.

Vorken was serving with a different squad, Mathen had not seen him in almost a year and he had not seen Kayren in even longer, only Darken remained at his side and Tyrgen, in Armael's squad would be with them on this, perhaps final mission.

Even though he had been weaned off of thinking of his old clan so much and had come to accept his squad as his new brothers the clan bonds were strong in all the sons of Krenim and the sons of Vorlen in particular. They were not just his brethren they were his rivals, the measurement to which he would always hold himself and try to surpass, their competition drove their comrades as well to greater and greater heights.

So though he was prepared to give his life for The Emperor along with the rest of his squad, his battle brothers, Mathen took some courage in particular from the presence of his brother and his cousin, and he took solace in knowing that their clan would still be represented in honor by Kayren and Vorken if he fell.

Of course he wanted to survive, and would try to the best of his capability to do so. He intended to be the first son of Vorlen to earn his name.

But in the end he would find that that was not his destiny.

 


End file.
